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“I Wonder if Success is Worth Buying at That Price! 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


BY 

CECILY HAMILTON 





NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 
1908 





UBRARY of QCNii^ESS 
I wo Copiei Mecwva’ 

JUN 8 1903 

Owynitifi 

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A AXC. rtv>. 

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Copyright, 1908, by 
The Century Co. 


Published^ June^ iqo8 



Ji»n>30rii 
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urft;^ 

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BOOK I 


“DOBSON’S” 







DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


CHAPTER I 

D iana MASSINGBERD sat with her 
elbows on the table staring at the 
yellow-brown paper that disfigured the 
wall of the assistants’ dining-room. Here 
and there the yellow-brown paper was 
stained with smears and dirt, and upon 
one of these smears Diana’s eyes had 
fixed themselves. She usually sat oppo- 
site that particular smudge at meals and 
she knew the shape of it nearly by heart 
— triangular but rounded ofif a little at 
the top. Just over it hung a text — ‘'He 
shall feed His Flock like a Shepherd” — 
in thick black letters on a ground that had 
once been white; and a little to the left 
3 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


was a large square of cardboard display- 
ing the one hundred and twenty-seven 
rules which Mr. Septimus Dobson had 
laid down for the guidance of his assist- 
ants. 

‘'I wonder/’ Diana said suddenly, 
breaking the silence that had hitherto 
been ruffled only by the hissing of the 
gas-jets and the scratching of a steel pen 
upon a shiny sheet of paper; wonder 
what Dobson would do if I were to break 
all the rules in one day — every one of 
them, straight off the reel, from the be- 
ginning of the list to the end?” 

Half a dozen heads were lifted to look 
at the speaker. Kitty Brant’s pen ceased 
to scribble, Miss Whitehead, a stoutish, 
anaemic-looking girl, raised a pair of 
meekly astonished blue eyes from the 
perusal of the latest number of the May- 
fair Novelettes, Miss Jay giggled and 
Miss Smithers’ needle hung poised for a 
4 ' 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

moment in mid-air. Then, with a sharp 
click of the thimble, she drove it home. 

''He ’d give you the sack,’’ she said with 
curt decision. 

"Of course,” Diana retorted, "but I 
should have floored him all the same. He 
couldn’t make me pay for all the rules 
I ’d broken — for obvious reasons. I to- 
talled up the amount payable in fines the 
other day and I discovered that the exact 
sum which it would cost to break every 
rule on that card is one pound fifteen 
shillings and ninepence. Now I haven’t 
got one pound fifteen shillings and nine- 
pence in the world — so I should have to 
leave Dobson’s drapery establishment ow- 
ing the proprietor that amount. The 
probability is that I should go on owing 
it. I wonder if he ’d send me in a bill and 
county-court me if I didn’t pay?” 

This time a vapid giggle from the fluffy- 
haired Miss Jay was the only response. 
5 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Miss Smithers did not deign one; she 
merely pressed her lips together, shrugged 
her shoulders and dug her needle into the 
skirt she was braiding. Miss Massing- 
berd’s moods irritated her; though she 
could not have expressed her feelings in 
words, she realized, half unconsciously, 
that Diana’s outspoken rebellion against 
the routine of her daily life was making 
its slow monotony less easy for herself to 
bear. She had never felt Diana’s fierce 
and passionate resentment against the sys- 
tem that aimed at transforming living 
flesh and blood into the mechanism of a 
profit-mongering drapery machine; but 
her own vague and impotent discontent 
had been a bitter thing in its time and 
was bitter still when she allowed herself 
to dwell on the possibilities of wider lives ; 
and Diana’s anger, Diana’s pain, Diana’s 
longings, stirred her uncomfortably, and 
6 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 


threw upon her mind a pale reflection of 
their own turbulence. 

Diana guessed Miss Smithers’ attitude 
towards herself and the system that 
molded their common lives — and despised 
it. There was rebel blood in her — Irish 
blood — and to her the submission that 
Miss Smithers cultivated not only as a 
shield but as a virtue was the sin of sins. 
She came of the class that breeds revolu- 
tionists — the class that knowing itself gen- 
tle by birth and education, finds itself lack- 
ing in the means to maintain the one and 
gratify the other and realizes, as perhaps 
no other class can do, the sheer brute 
power of money. 

Her lips straightened themselves a little 
disdainfully as she surveyed Miss Smith- 
ers’ stubbornly bent head ; her nerves were 
on edge to-night and she was in the mood 
for a wrangle with anybody. But Miss 
7 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Smithers was just as well aware of that 
fact as Diana herself — further, like the 
rest of her fellow-toilers, she had a whole- 
some respect for Miss Massingberd’s 
sharp-edged tongue. So it was Diana 
herself who took up the tale again. 

Ve only treated myself to six-penny- 
worth of fines to-day,’’ she said, folding 
her arms behind her head and staring 
defiantly at the card beside the text. 
'Threepence for being late at the counter 
and threepence for unbusiness-like con- 
duct. It was the Pringle woman each 
time. According to her every single 
thing I do comes under the heading of 
unbusiness-like conduct. I should like to 
smother her and dance on her corpse.” 

A giggle from Miss Jay, a significant 
glance at the door from Miss Smithers, 
and then Kitty Brant’s plaintive little voice 
chimed in: 

“Di, I wish you did n’t hate her so.” 

8 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘Why — don’t you hate her and her nag- 
ging and spying? don’t we all? Even 
Miss Smithers loathes the Pringle' though 
she does cringe to her and lick her 
boots — ” 

This time the challenge was too direct 
to be ignored and Miss Smithers raised a 
reddened face. 

“You ’ve no business to say that of me, 
Miss Massingberd. I would n’t lick any- 
body’s boots, Miss Pringle’s least of all; 
but I ’m not such a fool as to risk my bread 
and butter in the way you do. Why this 
morning you all but contradicted Mr. 
Dobson himself, about those suede gaunt- 
lets.” 

“Miss Smithers, I wish I had had the 
pluck to contradict Mr. Dobson right 
down — flat — direct, about those suede 
gauntlets. I was right and he was wrong 
— and the old beast knew it. He just 
wanted the pleasure of bullying me before 
9 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


you all; he ’s got his knife into me just as 
much as Miss Pringle has. Wonder how 
long it will be before I get the sack, Kit?'' 

''Oh, Di, you must n't." Kitty Brant's 
voice was almost tearful, her eyes round 
and anxious. Alone of her fellows she 
liked Diana Massingberd, pitied and un- 
derstood why it was that her fetters cut 
so deeply into her soul. The elder girl's 
flat rebellion against the dull system 
which ground out lives in return for a 
pitiful wage would have been impossible 
to Kitty; but she secretly admired what 
sh6 dared not imitate. And the one dark 
spot in her future — ^her pen had been 
scraping out a foolish little outburst of 
affection to the man who in three months 
time was to give her a home — was the re- 
gret that while she herself was about to 
escape from the toils of Dobson's, Di 
would be left entangled in them still. 

"Oh, Di, you must n't." 


10 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Diana thrust back her rumpled hair 
with a curt laugh. 

‘^What ’s the good of saying that to me, 
Kit? You must talk to Dobson. I can’t 
help getting the sack if he gives it to me, 
can I ? I’d bet a shilling, if I had a shil- 
ling, that I get kicked out within a fort- 
night. For one thing, I was caught sit- 
ting down to-day.” 

‘‘Who caught you?” 

“Need you ask? Miss Emily Pringle, 
of course — which means you may bet your 
life, that I ’ve been reported to Dobson. It 
was just my luck. There wasn’t a sou} 
at our counter, and nobody about, and I 
was feeling dead beat, so I thought I ’d 
chance it and sit down for a moment on 
one of the seats which the Government in- 
sists shall be provided — for us to look at. 
I ’d hardly pulled it out when the Pringle 
came sweeping back from her dinner, five 
minutes before I expected her. She made 


II 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


straight for me, of course — trust her for 
that — smiling her most acid smile and en- 
quired tenderly if I was feeling tired? I 
told her I was dog-tired — and that my 
feet ached; one may just as well be hung 
for a sheep as a lamb and I knew I was 
dead sure to be reported for sitting down 
in business hours — government regula- 
tions notwithstanding/’ 

Miss Smithers, still justly smarting un- 
der the remarks anent Miss Pringle and 
the licking of boots, lifted her eyebrows 
and twisted her lips into a pucker of con- 
tempt which might have been intended 
either for the framers of the Shop Assist- 
ants’ Seating Act or for Miss Massing- 
berd’s folly in taking advantage of the 
Act’s provisions. To be caught sitting 
down in business hours in Mr. Septimus 
Dobson’s premises was little short of a 
disaster; according to Mr. Dobson’s un- 


12 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


spoken, but well understood, theory, such 
a display of idleness on the part of an as- 
sistant was liable to give customers the 
impression that trade was slack and the 
“young lady” on that account unoccupied. 

“Oh dear,” Kitty sighed regretfully; 
“you must be careful, Di, you really must, 
if you want to stay on.” 

“The question is,” Diana returned reck- 
lessly, “do I want to stay on?” 

Remembering the state of her friend’s 
finances Kitty’s eyes grew wide with hor- 
ror and she clutched at Diana’s hand. 

“Oh, Di, you do — for the present you 
do, dear!” 

“For the present,” Diana echoed sul- 
lenly. “It ’s all very well for you to talk 
about the present. Kit, you ’ve got a future 
—I have n’t.” 

Kitty’s lip trembled and her eyes shone 
in silent reproach and then fell. It was 

13 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Miss Smithers who, still resentful and 
seeing her opportunity for a hit, chimed in 
in her most practical tones — 

''Miss Brant ’s quite right. Miss Mas- 
singberd; you’ll have to mind your p’s 
and q’s if you don’t want to go. Of 
course, you know your own business best 
— but as I ’ve heard you say you ’re all 
alone in the world, with nobody to look to ; 
and as I don’t suppose you’ve been able 
to save very much since you were taken on 
here—” 

"Save — good Lord, me save !” Diana 
jeered. "On thirteen pounds a year — 
five bob a week — with my clothes to find 
and my fines to pay !” 

There was an instant’s uncomfortable 
silence. For the second time that day 
Miss Massingberd had transgressed an 
unwritten law. 

"I suppose you know. Miss Massing- 
berd,” Miss Smithers said stiffly, "that 

14 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

the firm prefers that the assistants 
shoulcfh't discuss the amount of their sal- 
aries/' 

''Yes, I know it," Diana flared, "and I 
don’t wonder — I ’m glad the firm has the 
grace to be ashamed of itself sometimes. 
Well, I ’m not bound to consider its feel- 
ings and I shall discuss the amount of my 
salary — my totally inadequate salary — 
as often as I like! I get five bob a week 
— with deductions — and I don’t care who 
knows it; I only wish I could proclaim it 
from the housetops. Five bob a week for 
fourteen hours’ work a day — five bob a 
week for the use of my health and 
strength — five bob a week for my life! 
And I have n’t the shadow of a doubt that 
a good many others here are in the same 
box.’’ 

Miss Smithers snapped her thread vi- 
ciously, stuck her needle into the front of 
her bodice and rose to her feet. 

15 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


''Well, I 'm going to bed. I don 't know 
if you Ve found it out or not, but that 
clock ’s slow — I believe it ’s a good bit past 
the half-hour really.^’ 

"Is it?’' There was a general pushing 
back of chairs — the gas in the dormitories 
had to be out on the stroke of eleven. A 
good many of the girls, wearied with the 
long day’s work, had already slipped off 
to their beds and, on Miss Smithers’ hint, 
everyone, except Diana Massingberd, pre- 
pared to follow their example. She, 
alone, as if she had not heard the words, 
sat on at the table with her chin resting 
on her hand and her eyes staring down- 
wards at the soiled tartan cloth. 

Kitty Brant lingered, folding her un- 
finished letter and wiping her scratchy 
pen, until Miss Whitehead had shuffled 
• through the door yawning good night, 
extracting hair-pins from her coiffure ; 
then, with a sudden pitying impulse, she 

i6 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


sidled up to Diana and slipped an arm 
round the elder girl’s neck. 

‘‘Di, what ’s the matter — what ’s come 
over you lately? You use n’t to be like 
this. I know you always hated the work 
but it ’s only the last week or two you ’ve 
been so terribly discontented.” 

Diana laughed drearily. 

"Dh, it ’s been coming on a great deal 
longer than that. I ’m a brute, Kitty, to 
worry you with my growlings — but I 
can’t help myself. I have fits of this sort 
of thing; they come and take hold of you, 
every now and then, when you realize 
what your life might be — and what it is — 
all the squalor and the meanness and the 
grind and the hopelessness. I ’m about 
at the end of my tether, Kit.” 

^'But why?” Kitty pe^isted gently. 
''What is the matter just now — in par- 
ticular ?” 

"There is n’t anything particular the 

17 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


matter. That's just it. Everything is 
going on the same as usual. As it was in 
the beginning, is now and ever shall be, 
world without end, amen." 

She swung round suddenly in her chair 
and took Kitty's thin little face almost 
fiercely between her two hands. 

‘'You lucky little devil — you lucky little 
devil — ^you 're going to get out of it all. 
How I envy you — how we every one of us 
envy you, Kitty! In three months’ time 
you 'll be married — and, however your 
marriage turns out, it will be a change 
from Dobson's hosiery department. . . . 
Oh, I did n't mean to hurt you, dear. I 'm 
a beast to say such a thing — I only said 
it because I 'm hideously jealous of you. 
You can afford to forgive me. Kit, for in 
three months' time you'll have done with 
Dobson's. Think of it — think of it — 
you 'll have done with the nagging and 
the standing and this horrible bare room, 
i8 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


smelling of gas and dinners — and the dor- 
mitory with the damp oozing through the 
walls. You dl have done with Pringle’s 
sour face — ^you ’ll have done with the rules 
— the hateful, niggling rules — and the 
whole starved, petty life. But I have n’t 
done with it and it does n’t seem to me I 
ever shall.” 

Her hands slipped from Kitty’s face 
and she turned her head away and swal- 
lowed the lump in her throat. Racking 
her brain in vain for a word of comfort, 
Kitty stood beside her in dumb perplexity 
and pity. Diana’s fingers tattooed fiercely 
on the table for a moment and then she 
flung back her head and went on — 

‘Df course I know I sha’n’t be here 
much longer — I can quite see that. Dob- 
son will sack me, as Grinlay’s and half a 
dozen others have sacked me, because I 
can’t help showing them how I loathe 
them and their tyrannies. But when I ’m 

19 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 

fired out from here, I shall only start the 
same old grind somewhere else — all over 
and over again. The delectable atmos- 
phere of Dobson’s will follow me about 
wherever I go — oh, you know it will, 
Kitty, you know it will. I shall crawl 
round, cringing to be taken on somewhere 
else at the same starvation salary and then 
settle down in the same stuffy dormitory 
with the same mean little rules to obey. 
I shall serve the same stream of unintel- 
ligent customers, and bolt my dinner off 
the same tough meat in the same de- 
pressing dining-room with the same 
mustard-colored paper on the walls. And 
that ’s what I was born for. Kit, that ’s all 
that life has to give me. And there are 
people out in the world, people only a lit- 
tle way off, no better and no worse than I 
am — who get up in the morning and say 
to themselves T will do this because I 
want and like to do it — because / want to 


20 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

do it/ mind you. Those are the people 
who live. Kitty, I only exist. I some- 
times feel — I feel to-night — as if I would 
give my immortal soul to live — just live 
— for a week 

She jerked back her chair from the 
table, and, with a gesture of impatient 
misery, strode across the room and leaned 
her head upon the mantelpiece, hiding her 
face in her hand. 

''You ’d better go up to bed, Kitty,’' she 
said after a moment’s silence. "It ’s close 
on a quarter to eleven. I ’m coming in a 
moment, but I don’t want the others to 
see I ’ve been crying. I ’m sorry I ’ve 
talked to you like this. You can’t do any 
good and I only make you miserable — it ’s 
disgustingly selfish of me. Now, run 
along, or you won’t have time to do your 
hair before the light goes out.” 

"You won’t be long,” Kitty pleaded, 
as she gathered up pen, ink and blotting- 


21 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


paper. ‘‘Miss Pringle may come in, and 
she does n’t like it if we are not in our 
rooms by a quarter to eleven.” 

“No, I won’t be long — less than five 
minutes.” 

The door closed behind Kitty Brant and 
Diana stood staring down into the grate. 
What she had said to the younger girl 
was true; every now and then an over- 
whelming passion of resentment at the 
hardships of her daily life boiled up 
fiercely within her and had to find an out- 
let. As often as not that outlet had been 
found in a reckless defiance of the powers 
that be — ^with the result that the powers 
that be had speedily decided to dispense 
with her services. The very violence 
with which her feelings were expressed 
on such occasions usually brought about 
a reaction — a phase of nervous exhaus- 
tion and dull submission, more or less sul- 
len, to the conditions of her narrow 


22 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

routine. Then, gradually, the sore would 
chafe again, the narrow round become 
more hateful and more hideous, the day’s 
unvaried toil more intolerable — and when 
the iron had entered deeply enough into 
her soul another outburst would be due. 
Of all women in the world Diana Mas- 
singberd was the least fitted by nature to 
live under an order of things which gives 
scope to petty tyranny; and the regula- 
tions of the ‘diving-in” system which, to 
more orderly natures, might have been 
merely vexatious and unpleasant, to her 
were an insult and an injury combined. 

It was not alone an inborn independ- 
ence of temperament which utterly un- 
fitted her for a life hemmed in by regula- 
tions; her training had been everything 
that a shop assistant’s ought not to be. 
The only child of a country doctor — a 
hard-worked, improvident, good-natured 
Irishman — from the age of thirteen she 

23 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


had ruled his household, after his own im- 
provident fashion, to her complete satis- 
faction and the detriment of her educa- 
tion. She was over twenty-one when Dr. 
Massingberd took to his bed with an at- 
tack of double pneumonia and died within 
a week, leaving to his daughter, as her 
sole heritage, a few unpaid debts. 

There had been a consultation of the 
dead man’s solicitor and an unknown 
cousin or two who had turned up for the 
funeral and who made no secret of their 
desire to repudiate responsibility for 
Diana’s future, as soon as the position 
was made clear for them. Before her 
father was laid in the ground Diana had 
begun to realize what it meant to be a 
superfluous woman, and, with a bitter re- 
sentment that divided her heart with 
grief, she listened to her relatives’ em- 
phatic pronouncements on the duty of 
earning her own living and the impos- 
24 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

sibility of expecting aid from others. She 
acquiesced readily enough in the sugges- 
tion — with a scorn but partially disguised 
for the motives of those who proffered it, 
but without any serious misgivings as to 
her powers of self-support. Those came 
later, when it had been borne in upon her 
that a course of miscellaneous reading, a 
habit of independent thinking and a ca- 
pacity for apt and sarcastic speech are not 
the best qualifications for a wage-earning 
machine. 

She was still numb from the shock of 
her father’s death when she found herself 
installed behind the counter of a large 
London draper’s. The establishment was 
a fairly good one of its class, which was 
not the highest. In one belonging to a 
higher grade a heavy premium would 
have been demanded, and Diana’s relatives 
were anxious to get her off their hands 
as inexpensively as possible. The girl 

25 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

fell in with their arrangements unresist- 
ingly — and exchanged her careless, un- 
ordered life for an existence whose every 
hour was mapped out and confined, where 
liberty was not and every harmless im- 
pulse came in contact with a rule. To 
her, from the first, the place was a prison ; 
it was not only that she suffered physically 
from the close confinement, lack of air, 
bad food and long hours of weary stand- 
ing; the mental atmosphere at the same 
time stifled and irritated her. She held 
on for something over six months and 
then, with a pound or two in her pocket, 
broke out, in the hope of bettering herself. 

The hope was vain. By the time her 
funds had melted away and she had se- 
cured another berth, she found that she 
had merely exchanged the frying-pan for 
the fire and, before long, was looking back 
regretfully upon her first experience of 
^fliving-in.’^ And so life had gone on for 
26 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


her during the past six years — a thing to 
be resented and endured. She had made 
one or two efforts to extricate herself 
from the toils of the drapery trade, al- 
ways without success. Always, for lack 
of funds, she had drifted back to her place 
behind the counter, to the common bed- 
room and the common dining-room, to the 
subjection that her individuality loathed 
and rebelled against. She was twenty- 
eight now, and the unreasoning hopes of 
early youth had died in her soul; she felt 
that life was slipping from her, with its 
beauties unknown and its passions and 
possibilities unfathomed; and her heart 
cried out within her against the fate that 
had denied to her the exercise of the 
power she felt she possessed — the power 
of living, and living to the uttermost. 


27 


CHAPTER II 


T he allotted five minutes and more 
had gone by when Diana roused 
herself, glanced at the clock, gave her 
reddened eyes a final dab with her crum- 
pled handkerchief, and made for the 
dormitory which she shared with Kitty 
Brant, Miss Smithers, Miss Jay and Miss 
Morton. As she flung open the door 
Miss Jay's voice broke off suddenly in 
the middle of a sentence and Miss Smith- 
ers began to hum as she brushed out 
the twist of hair she had removed from 
the top of her head to her knee. Diana 
smiled sarcastically; even if Kitty's face 
had not worn a troubled, resentful ex- 
pression, she would have guessed that the 
other two had been discussing her in un- 
complimentary terms. 

28 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘Whereas Miss Morton?’’ Miss Jay 
demanded, as she added another to the 
row of steel curling-pins which encased 
her yellow head like a helmet. 

‘^It ’s her evening out,” Kitty returned 
from the folds of a pink flannelette night- 
gown. ''If she is n’t back soon she ’ll 
have to go to bed in the dark — it ’s close 
on eleven. Hurry up, Di.” 

"All right — I ’m hurrying,” Diana re- 
turned as she seated herself on the bat- 
tered tin box at the foot of her bed — the 
box that contained all her earthly posses- 
sions, with the exception of a shabby 
black jacket hanging on the door. Four 
other boxes, of varying shapes and sizes, 
were ranged at the foot of the four other 
beds — and beds and boxes together com- 
prised the greater part of the furniture 
of the dormitory. A couple of small 
iron washstands were planted one at each 
end of the room, a chair, rickety by rea- 
29 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

son of a shortened leg, stood before a 
shabby dressing-table placed beneath the 
one gas-jet; and a wooden-framed look- 
ing-glass, with a crack across the whole 
face, hung above it. The same paper — 
the mustard-colored paper abhorred by 
Diana — that adorned the dining-room 
likewise adorned the dormitory and, as 
in the dining-room was diversified by 
damp, and dirt stains. There were no 
pictures on the walls ; one of the hundred 
and twenty-seven rules of the establish- 
ment forbade the driving in of a nail 
under the penalty of a fine of threepence; 
and the only attempt at decoration con- 
sisted of a couple of cheaply framed pho- 
tographs of two badly posed and undec- 
or ative young men which Miss Jay had 
arranged upon the mantelpiece above the 
walled-in grate. The sole adornment 
provided by the firm was a large notice 
in close proximity to the gas-bracket stat- 

30 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


ing that a fine of five shillings would be 
inflicted on any young lady found using 
a '‘jigger” — a ''jigger” being a contriv- 
ance on which, when attached to the gas- 
bracket, a tired or chilly assistant might 
presume to boil herself a cup of cocoa at 
her own expense. 

To the cold, comfortless atmosphere of 
the dormitory Diana’s presence had added 
a touch of antagonism and, after Miss 
Jay’s query and Kitty’s reply, silence 
reigned for the space of three or four 
minutes. Miss Smithers, in black cor- 
sets and a striped moirette petticoat, 
finished arranging her artificial tresses 
for the morrow and applied herself to the 
combing of those that grew on her head; 
and Miss Jay, having completed the com- 
position of the helmet, had begun hur- 
riedly to divest herself of her petticoat 
and bodice when the carpetless stairs 
creaked to the tread of hurried footsteps 

31 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

and a breathless girl dashed into the room, 
pulling off her jacket as she ran. 

''Just in time,” she gasped. Ve run 
all the way from the ’bus. I was afraid 
I should n’t get in till after eleven, and I 
do so hate going to bed in the dark — I 
never can find my things. Oh, Miss Mas- 
singberd, did n’t you see this letter for 
you? It was on the hall table. Here 
you are.” 

She tossed the letter to Diana, jerked 
her coat onto a peg on the door, flung her 
hat on the bed and began to wrench at 
her refractory bootlaces, pouring out 
meanwhile a flood of chatter on the even- 
ing’s doing with her cousins in Balham. 
Miss Jay chimed in with eager, nasal 
questions. On a previous evening out 
she had made the acquaintance of Miss 
Morton’s cousin Albert, and was not 
without hopes of adding a third to the 

32 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

photographic collection on the mantel- 
piece. 

Meanwhile, Diana, under the gas-jet, 
had surveyed and then opened her letter — 
slowly and with interest, a letter being an 
unusual event in her life. The handwrit- 
ing of the address was formal, clerkly, un- 
inviting; the inside to all appearances 
equally so. She glanced at the signature 
— Hubert Crampton — unknown; and be- 
gan to read. 

''Re E. C. Cooper deceased. Dear 
Madam — ” 

Miss Jay and Miss Morton at the other 
end of the room were chattering volubly; 
Kitty was about to bestow herself between 
the sheets, and Miss Smithers had just 
drawn her nightgown from its hiding- 
place under the pillow, when a sharp, al- 
most frightened cry from Diana turned 
every head in her direction. 

33 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘^Girls— girls!’’ 

She was standing erect under the gas- 
jet, her eyes wide and shining and her 
face white except for two red spots that 
had suddenly appeared on her cheek- 
bones. Kitty was at her side in an in- 
stant amid a rush of exclamations from 
the others. 

''What ’s the matter, Miss Massing- 
berd?” 

"Di, are you ill?” 

"Has anything happened?” 

"What on earth is it?” 

"The letter — the letter 1” Diana gasped. 
"Read it someone — read it to me. No, 
no” — and she snatched it back from 
Kitty’s outstretched hand — "Let me read 
it again myself first.” 

"Is it bad news, dear — oh, I hope it ’s 
not bad news.” 

"Bad news — bad news?” Diana’s 
voice went up in a trembling laugh that, 
34 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


to her hearers, betokened hysterics and 
Miss Morton dashed to the washstand to 
fill the tooth-glass with water. 

‘‘No, no, I ’m all right — I ’m all right,” 
Diana laughed, thrusting it aside. “Only 
I feel as if I can’t believe it. It ’s this let- 
ter — the letter Miss Morton brought me. 
Fancy, it must have been lying in the hall 
since the last post came in, and I never 
noticed — never knew. If I had, how I 
should have dashed for it — ” 

“But what ’s it all about — who is it 
from? What does it say?” Miss Smith- 
ers interposed. 

“It ’s from a lawyer — a solicitor in Lin- 
coln’s Inn Fields. It says that a cousin 
of my father’s — Edward Chamberlain 
Cooper, a distant cousin whom I never 
knew and who was in some sort of busi- 
ness in Manchester — died suddenly a little 
while ago without leaving a will. That ’s 
the point — he didn’t leave a will, so his 
35 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


money had to be divided up among the 
next of kin. And I ’m one of them — one 
of the next of kin — and they Ve been try- 
ing to trace me for weeks — and I get three 
hundred pounds.’’ 

The color had spread all over her face 
now ; her eyes had lost the fear with which 
they had at first looked upon happiness 
and for the first time since they had known 
her, her companions heard her laugh with- 
out bitterness. A chorus of congratula- 
tions broke out and Kitty flung two flan- 
neletted arms around her neck. 

‘‘Three hundred pounds — oh, you lucky 
girl!” 

“Yes, three hundred pounds — three 
hundred pounds,” Diana repeated, rolling 
the words over her lips and rocking her 
body backwards and forwards in 
rhythmic accompaniment to them. “I 
could hardly believe it at first — it seemed 
impossible that such a thing could happen 

36 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


to me. But there ’s no doubt about it; it ’s 
here in black and white — the money has 
been waiting for me while I Ve been 
drudging and slaving here. Girls, Tm 
not a pauper any longer. I Ve got three 
hundred pounds.’’ 

‘‘And what are you going to do with 
it?” Miss Jay demanded. 

“Heavens, I haven’t thought yet — all 
sorts of things. But I ’ll stand you all a 
treat on Sunday to begin with, and Kitty 
shall have a wedding present. What 
shall it be. Kit?” 

“You mustn’t be extravagant,” Kitty 
protested. “Whatever you do, don’t 
waste the money, dear. You ought to 
put it straight in the bank.” 

Diana’s eyes danced recklessly. 

“Put it in the bank, goose ! What ’s 
the good of that?” 

“Of course not.” This from Miss 
Smithers, the practical. “Banks don’t 
37 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


pay interest ; you should invest it in some- 
thing safe/' 

Diana wheeled round upon her with a 
touch of the old antagonism. 

'That 's your idea, is it? Well, it is n't 
mine. Invest it and get nine or ten 
pounds a year at the outside? No, thank 
you; not good enough. I understand 
what can be bought for money a good deal 
better than you do, and now I ',ve got three 
hundred pounds I intend to have some fun 
out of it." 

"You 'll chuck Dobson's, I suppose," 
Miss Morton conjectured enviously. 

"Chuck Dobson's — what do you think? 
The money 's waiting for me — Mr. 
Crampton says so — and you don't sup- 
pose I shall stop in this beastly den a mo- 
ment longer than I can help. Dobson's 
hosiery department has seen the last of 
me, I can tell you. I 'd clear out to-night, 

38 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


if it wasn't so late. No, I wouldn't 
though, because — " 

She stopped and laughed quietly, rub- 
bing her hands gently together. 

‘'Because why?'’ Miss Jay queried. 

“Because if I took my hook to-night, I 
should n't be able to see Mr. Dobson in 
the morning and tell him what I think of 
him." 

If Mr. Dobson could have seen her face 
at that moment his head would have 
rested less easily upon his pillow — for 
Diana's tongue was sharp and the fore- 
taste of revenge was sweet in Diana's 
mouth. 

“You 're not really going to?" Miss Jay 
giggled. 

“Not going to? You wait till to-mor- 
row morning, and then you 'll see what 
you 'll see and hear what you 'll hear." 

“Oh, Di," Kitty protested nervously. 

39 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Diana clapped a caressing hand over her 
mouth. 

''Shut up, Kitty, you don’t understand 
— you don’t any of you understand — 
what money really means. It ’s power — 
the one thing worth having. Power to 
do what you like, to go where you like, 
to say what you like. It ’s only people 
with money who can treat themselves 
to free speech. Because I ’ve got three 
hundred pounds in my pocket, I shall 
be able to enjoy the priceless luxury of 
telling Mr. Septimus Dobson to his fat, 
white face what we all of us whisper be- 
hind his mean, old back.” 

"You won’t dare?” Miss Morton 
gasped in trembling admiration. 

"Dare !” Diana flung out her arm 
magnificently. "With three hundred 
pounds in my pocket I ’d dare anything on 
earth!” 

The others looked on in appalled envy. 

40 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


The spirit of power and adventure was 
upon her as she sat there, half-dressed, 
with her bare arms clasped round her 
petticoated knees. To the extent of three 
hundred pounds, the world was hers, life 
and the enjoyment of life. The knowl- 
edge intoxicated her and she was as 
capable of wisdom as a drunkard in his 
cups. 

Miss Smithers, quite impervious to any- 
thing but the practical side of affairs, 
descended on her in the character of a wet 
blanket. 

'Tt seems to me. Miss Massingberd, 
that you Te forgetting that three hundred 
pounds won't last forever." 

Diana only needed opposition to en- 
courage her, and she welcomed it with 
cheerful antagonism. 

''Oh no, I 'm not ; but while it does last 
I intend to have everything I want — 
everything." 


41 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 


"'Oh, Di, don’t do anything silly,” Kitty 
remonstrated. 

Miss Smithers sniffed disapprobation. 

"It won’t last you long at that rate. Miss 
Massingberd.” 

"I ’m quite aware of that. Miss Smithers 
— but I don’t care. The three hundred 
pounds are mine, and I shall do exactly 
what I please with them. Who was it 
said something about a crowded hour of 
glorious life — anybody remember ? I’m 
sure I don’t and it does n’t much matter. 
The point is that that ’s what I ’m going to 
have — a crowded hour — and it shall be 
crowded.” 

Her eyes defied her listeners’ objections, 
as she went on rapidly, her hands flying 
out, now and again, in eager gesticula- 
tion. 

"What ’s the use of letting the money 
dribble away through my fingers by de- 
42 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


grees ? What ’s the use ? I want to 
know, not to look on — to live, can't you 
understand? For once in my existence 
I 'll have a royal time. I 'll deny myself 
nothing — nothing, do you hear. Miss 
Smithers? Life is sensations — new sen- 
sations. I 'd rather live for a month than 
vegetate for sixty years. That 's what I 
shall do. I 've had six years of scrape or 
starve. Now I 'll have a month of every- 
thing that money can buy me, and there 
are very few things that money can't buy 
me — precious few!" 

The glow of her reckless magnificence 
had communicated itself to the three 
younger girls, even to the anxious Kitty. 
Only Miss Smithers repeated her disap- 
proving sniff. 

^That means?" Diana inquired po- 
litely. 

'T was only wondering what you would 

43 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


do when the money is all spent?’’ Miss 
Smithers explained, while Kitty’s eyes 
again grew anxious. 

''When it is all spent?” Diana repeated. 

"Yes?” Miss Smithers challenged. 

"When it is all spent, I shall go back, 
I suppose — back to the treadmill grind — 
or whatever comes next. But I shall have 
something to remember ; I shall be able to 
look back at my crowded hour — my one 
little bit of life. That would n’t mean 
much to you, but it will mean a great deal 
to me. For one month I shall have had my 
freedom; I shall have done what I chose, 
what I liked — not what I was forced to, 
not what I was ordered to. And that will 
be something to the good, something to 
remember — for me. Something you can’t 
understand.” 

She sprang up suddenly and flung out 
her arms, almost upsetting- Kitty in the 
process. 


44 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘^But I ’m not going to think of the after- 
wards. I ’m going to think of the now. 
What shall I do, Kit, eh? Any sugges- 
tions, girls ? For one thing I shall travel 
— I Ve always longed and craved to see 
something of the world besides one nar- 
row, ugly little piece of it.’’ 

“Where shall you go?” Miss Morton 
inquired. 

“Have n’t thought yet, but, of course, 
I shall begin with Paris.” 

“Paris!” The listeners’ eyes glistened 
approvingly. To the English middle- 
class the very name suggests attractive 
impropriety. 

“Paris,” Diana nodded, “to buy my 
clothes.” 

“I say, you are going it!” Miss Jay 
sniggered admiringly. 

“I ’ll know what it is to wear a decently- 
cut frock before I die,” Diana went on. 
“Also boots that cost more than seven and 
45 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


eleven-pence a pair. I mean to have the 
best of everything, I tell you; and you 
can’t beat Paris for clothes, so Paris is 
the place for my money. In a week’s 
time if you could see me you wouldn’t 
know me — this sort of thing will be in the 
rag-bag by then.” 

A contemptuous kick sent the skirt she 
had discarded halfway across the floor. 

^^Then when I ’ve got my clothes, I shall 
go on — ^move about. Switzerland, Italy 
— no, not Italy now, it will be too hot for 
Italy — wherever I feel inclined.” 

‘Dh, it will be lovely,” Kitty sighed, 
“too lovely for anything, Di, but you 
ought n’t—” 

“No ‘buts,’ ” Diana threatened, “no 
^buts,’ Kitty. I am not going to have any 
'buts’ for the next month. When I leave 
Paris I shall go somewhere in the moun- 
tains, I think, for part of the time — I ’ve 
always longed to see real mountains. 

46 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 


Just think, the loveliness of them after 
London, girls — hot, smelly, stuffy London. 
It ’s a shame to talk like this to you, 
though, when you Ve all got to stick here.’’ 

''Never mind,” Miss Morton said philo- 
sophically. "You can’t be expected to 
take us all with you, and you ’re standing 
us a bust-up on Sunday, you know. Go 
on — tell us some more about what you ’re 
going to do.” 

Diana cast a sidelong glance at Miss 
Smithers. 

"Well, of course, I shall stay at the best 
hotels — the most expensive hotels. By 
the way, I think I shall wear a wedding- 
ring and call myself Mrs. Massingberd.” 

"Mrs. Massingberd — why?” 

"Oh, you can do so much more what 
you like — travel alone and all that. 
You ’re ever so much freer when you ’re 
married — especially when your husband’s 
dead. I shall be a widow !” 


47 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Even Miss Smithers joined in the 
chorus of laughter that greeted the an- 
nouncement — and then, suddenly break- 
ing off, she sprang to her feet. 

'‘Miss Pringle she gasped. "It ’s 
twenty past eleven — the gas — 

It was too late to turn it out. The top 
stair creaked, the light must have been 
visible through the chinks of the door. 
Kitty, the only one arrayed in night at- 
tire, flung herself into bed and the others 
effaced themselves as far as possible, 
Diana excepted. As the door swung 
open and Miss Pringle, gaunt and indig- 
nant, stalked into the room. Miss Mas- 
singberd sat herself down upon the box 
at the end of her bed, lifted up her voice 
and sang softly. It was a psalm of in- 
finite rejoicing that her enemy was 
delivered into her hand. 

Miss Pringle surveyed the scene — the 
vacant beds, the frightened girls, above all, 
48 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

the burning gas — with eyes that glared 
amazement. It is to be presumed that 
Mr. Dobson’s forewoman had once been 
young — but she had forgotten that. It is 
to be presumed that she once had suffered 
under those who had been set in authority 
over her — that she had forgotten that 
also. Her method of inflicting verbal 
chastisement was to prepare the way for 
it by an awful silence. Diana sang on. 

Miss Pringle’s black dress rustled vig- 
orously ; and she spoke. 

^^I should be obliged if you would in- 
form me what is the meaning of the noise 
and uproar I heard from downstairs — also 
why, in defiance of Mr. Dobson’s rules, 
the gas is alight in this dormitory after 
eleven o’clock at night? Miss Massing- 
berd, was it your voice I heard as I came 
up the stairs?” 

Diana swung round upon her box and 
— oh, the exquisite perfection of the mo- 
49 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


ment ! — for the first time faced her enemy 
without fear. 

‘'Miss Pringle — it was!'’ 

The impudence of the avowal reddened 
Miss Pringle’s face. She stiffened her- 
self with a glance intended to wither. 

“Then — ” she began; but Diana cut her 
short. 

“The usual thing, I suppose?” she 
smiled encouragingly. “Gas burning in 
the dormitory after eleven o’clock — six- 
pence all round. We needn’t trouble 
you to repeat the formula — it ’s taken as 
read. Never mind, girls” — she waved 
her arm comprehensively round the room 
— “do n’t you worry. I ’m standing treat 
for this little lot.” 

Miss Pringle was a past-mistress in the 
art of attack; the art of defence she had 
hitherto neglected as useless and unnec- 
essary. Her encounters with the assist- 
ants usually resulted in a walk-over for 
SO 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


herself — the other party to the one-sided 
combat merely imploring such quarter as 
she chose to give. This was something 
new, and even while she swelled with rage 
she felt sudden qualms as to the issue of 
the combat. In tones of sepulchral au- 
thority she ejaculated, ‘'Miss Massing- 
berd,'’ and paused — hoping that would be 
enough. 

Diana bowed suavely from the box. 

“Miss Pringle?^' 

Something more was needed. Miss 
Pringle pulled herself together. 

“Do you wish me to report you to Mr. 
Dobson ?” 

The joy of battle was hot in Miss Mas- 
singberd’s heart — the very perfect pleas- 
ure of a good fighter danced in Miss Mas- 
singberd’s eyes. Lo, how the world was 
changed to her through the magic of 
three hundred pounds! Enthroned she 
sat upon the old tin trunk, with the earth 
SI 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


at her feet and her enemy beneath them. 

‘Do I wish you to report me to Mr. 
Dobson — for more unbusinesslike con- 
duct ? Certainly, if you like. Please 
yourself about it. I really don’t care a 
row of brass pins.” 

Amazed, bewildered. Miss Pringle 
would have retreated, had she dared to 
confess to defeat before the four spec- 
tators of the fray. She quivered with 
fury, hesitated, and charged again. 

“Are you out of your senses. Miss Mas- 
singberd ?” 

Diana accepted the suggestion with a 
bland smile. 

“Now you mention it, I do feel rather 
like it.” 

The need for self-encouragement as 
much as a desire to daunt the enemy 
prompted Miss Pringle’s next thrust. 

“You ’ll be sorry for this impertinence 
to-morrow.” 


52 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Miss Massingberd’s smile grew blander 
and she shook her head. 

assure you, you are entirely mis- 
taken. The combination of astonishment 
and fury on your face will always remain 
with me as a pleasing memory — ^grateful 
and comforting. I may add that the ef- 
fect is singularly unbecoming.’’ 

A piercing giggle from Miss Jay 
squealed out by the corner bed. Miss 
Pringle wheeled viciously, and the miser- 
able culprit strove in vain to stifle her guilt 
with the aid of a flannel petticoat and a 
new-found throat affection. Encouraged 
by the sight of her cowering confusion. 
Miss Pringle tried again. 

'‘Miss Massingberd,” she began ma- 
jestically — 

"Allow me to remind you,” Diana in- 
terposed, "that you ’ve made that remark 
before. If you ’ve nothing to add to it, 
I ’m sure we need n’t detain you any 

53 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


longer. I ’ll turn out the gas when I Ve 
done with it, thank you — which won’t be 
for a few minutes yet.” 

And she swung round indifferently and 
began to pull out hair-pins from her tum- 
bled head. 

''Miss Massingberd, I believe you ’re 
drunk.” 

Four simultaneous "ohs!” long drawn 
and horrified, came shivering across the 
room — and Diana rose in her might. 
Not in wrath, but in triumph; not in- 
sulted, but exultant. 

"You may believe any mortal thing you 
like, you may say any mortal thing you 
like — ^because what you choose to believe 
and what you choose to think are matters 
of complete indifference to me now. It 
has ceased to matter to me in the very 
least whether you are satisfied with me or 
whether you are n’t ; whether you fine me 
or whether you don’t. This morning the 
54 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


stony glare in your eye would have made 
me shiver; to-night it merely makes me 
smile. In short, Miss Pringle, you are no 
longer in a position to bully me, so take my 
advice and don't try it on. I can call my 
soul my own now." 

Miss Pringle, dumbfounded, tried to 
stare down the impudent eyes — and failed. 
Then, in her dire need, she called once 
more upon the name of high authority. 

‘'Miss Massingberd, the first thing in 
the morning — the very first thing in the 
morning — I shall make it my business to 
inform Mr. Dobson — " 

“Damn Mr. Dobson !" said Diana 
heartily. 

Then, while the girls sat stiff and Miss 
Pringle reeled, she strode across the room 
and turned the gas up higher. 

“And the same remark," she added, 
“applies to yourself. Good-night." 

Miss Pringle — went. 

55 





I 


I 

: 

.. 

•) 




( 

'3 





BOOK II 




CHAPTER III 


D iana MASSINGBERD sat on the 
deck of the Dover-Calais boat. 
The day had dropped from heaven and 
circular notes to the value of three hun- 
dred pounds — minus the price of a tailor- 
made suit, a first-class ticket to Paris, a 
traveling-trunk and a treat to the girls — 
were buttoned inside her jacket. There- 
fore, she was glad to be alive. 

The sense of a great adventure was on 
her soul; she was a prisoner broken free, 
with the world to choose from and com- 
mand. For a short month she was mis- 
tress of her fate and it behooved her to 
see that her fate served her well, and that 
every moment had its meed of pleasure. 

So far she was fully satisfied with her 

59 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

achievements. The wreaking of ven- 
geance upon Pringle had been followed 
next morning by the routing of Dobson; 
Diana’s eyes rippled as she lived the scene 
again. The victory in the latter case had 
been no less signal than in the former. 
Before the eyes of his trembling assist- 
ants — ^yea, more, before the eyes of his 
astounded customers — she had smitten 
Mr. Septimus Dobson hip and thigh, from 
one end of the hosiery department to the 
other till, in ignominious confusion, he 
took refuge behind the door of his office 
and turned the key thereof. Then, and 
then only, with a joy in her heart and ex- 
ultation in her eyes, Diana had shaken the 
dust of Dobson’s from her skirts, and, be- 
ing without the price of a bus-fare, pro- 
ceeded on foot to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. 

Since then life had been exquisite with 
the sense of possession. She had become, 
as it were, a part of the world from which 
6o 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

she had hitherto been cut off — was in it 
and owned it It was for her and her 
money that the shops in Regent Street dis- 
played their wares and decked their win- 
dows; it was for her that cabmen plied 
and watched, for her that waiters smiled 
and hustled and railway porters made 
things easy. The atmosphere of defer- 
ence, of courtesy and consideration in 
which she had lived since she swept out 
of Dobson’s was as exhilarating as wine. 

The sullen, white-lipped drudge of a 
few days ago was a creature poles apart 
from the radiant, adventurous Diana who 
stood with her hands upon the rail while 
the steamer churned and thudded her way 
between the Calais piers. Everything 
was a new sensation and a joy — the rush 
aboard of turbulent, shouting Frenchmen 
as the boat came to a standstill at the quay, 
the hurried formalities of the custom- 
house, the engaging and interested atten- 
6i 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

tions of the porter who conveyed her to 
the Paris train — and whom Diana, being 
5 by nature an aristocrat, rewarded with a 
’ regal tip. Not even the flat, unvaried as- 
pect of the country through which the 
train wound its way could rob her journey 
of its enjoyment; she saw even the dull 
fields and box-like, way-side stations 
through a veil of mystery and romance. 

Beyond ^Taris for clothes’’ she had 
formed no plans for the present. Nor 
had she, as yet, felt much need of society 
or sympathy; her changed position was, 
in itself, delight enough, and there was a 
subtle irony about the way in which she 
was taken at her face value that was a 
never-ceasing source of amusement and 
delight. What, she asked herself, would 
be the feelings of the portly Englishman 
and his wife who shared her table in the 
luncheon-car and finally unbent to her 
smiling advances, if they knew that their 
62 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

companion had escaped only a few days 
before from the slavery of a low-class 
suburban shop? Would they be openly 
resentful, she wondered, or merely con- 
descending? Of one thing, at least, she 
was certain ; they would cease to treat her 
as a human being like-minded and like- 
natured with themselves. Their unim- 
portant conversation amused and inter- 
ested her; the difference between their 
point of view and her own gave to their 
speech almost the character of an unfa- 
miliar language — a language she had 
nearly forgotten during the last six years, 
but which, now and again, was oddly rem- 
iniscent of her youth and childhood. Lis- 
tening to it, she realized, as she had never 
realized before, the width of the great 
gulf fixed between those who work that 
they may eat and those who toil not, 
neither do they spin. She parted from 
them upon the platform of the Gare du 

63 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Nord, having learned much from them. 

The London tourist office at which she 
had taken her ticket to Paris had recom- 
mended a suitable hotel — quiet but com- 
fortable. To her it was the last word in 
luxury and before she turned out the elec- 
tric light that night she lay on her pillows 
fingering the soft sheets, admiring the 
neat appointments of the room, and lis- 
tening to the dull murmur from the ad- 
joining Boulevard des Capucines. It 
seemed to her like the very whisper of 
life, the audible expression of her untrans- 
latable desires. 

With the morning came business — 
clothes. Before setting out she held con- 
sultation with the manageress of the ho- 
tel — a stout, smiling Frenchwoman, 
delighted to give advice to Madame, and 
with, no doubt, a weather eye upon com- 
mission — as to the shops where her money 
might be expended to the best advantage. 

64 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


The advice was good, if not always en- 
tirely disinterested; and for the next few 
days Diana shopped and ordered. The 
process was a pure delight; she was in 
heaven and the possessor of things which, 
a fortnight ago, had seemed far more in- 
accessible than heaven. When her first 
evening dress came home she locked the 
door of her bedroom and peacocked for an 
hour before the glass. 

In the intervals of shopping she drifted 
hither and thither through Paris — once or 
twice with acquaintances picked up at the 
hotel, but usually alone. To sight-seeing 
proper, she was indifferent; in fact, the 
sense that it was her duty to see certain 
things was sufficient to make her leave 
them severely alone. She liked to be free, 
to have no plan, to go where impulse took 
her. Once she wandered into Notre 
Dame and another time floated idly into 
Les Invalides, not knowing what it Was 

65 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


until, with a dim, overmastering awe, she 
found herself looking down upon that 
which hides the body of the restless man 
who tore Europe to tatters in his time; 
but the Louvre, the Pantheon, Versailles, 
she avoided, and her Paris as a whole, was 
the Paris of the shops and streets. 

For a few days it satisfied her utterly, 
and then came the desire for something 
more. The atmosphere of idleness and 
liberty had ceased to be sufficient in itself ; 
suddenly there rushed upon her the need 
for closer contact with humanity than 
could be afforded in a crowd and she felt 
as if she were wasting her time when 
worlds on worlds remained to be con- 
quered. She would be off on her trav- 
els next morning. The question was, 
whither? 

She turned into Cook’s office in the 
Place de TOpera decided only upon moun- 
tains — mountains and men and women 
66 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


with whom she could laugh and talk and 
make merry. Men and women who 
would give her the deference that was the 
due of Mrs. Massingberd’s Paris gowns; 
and mountains, cool and grateful after the 
heat of sun-beaten pavements. 

There was a little crowd round the 
counter and the clerks were busy. Diana 
stood idly waiting, turning over some col- 
ored pamphlets glorifying various Swiss 
resorts and drawing her forehead into 
frowning consideration of their several 
merits. A hearty masculine greeting be- 
hind her made her turn her head; two 
ruddy-faced young Englishmen had run 
against each other unexpectedly. 

"'Hello, what are you doing here? 
Passing through ? 

"Yes. Going to Interlaken with the 
mater and the girls. We ought to have 
been there by now, but, by ill luck, one of 
the mater’s boxes vanished on the journey 
67 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

from London — fallen overboard or some- 
thing — and has n’t turned up yet. Noth- 
ing will induce her to stir without it, so 
here we are — stuck down in Paris. I ’ve 
just come in here to make inquiries about 
the blessed thing. Where are you off 
to?” 

'Tontresina to begin with. Gregory 
and I are going to do some climbing. 
Know Pontresina at all ?” 

''No — somewhere along the Engadine, 
is n’t it?” 

"That way — not far from St. Moritz. 
Ripping place — I was there two years ago 
— awfully good climbing and lots going 
on there, too — plenty of decent people ; not 
one of those dull holes where there’s noth- 
ing to do in the evening except go to 
bed.” 

The pair drifted away towards the 
counter; Diana glanced at them — and 
made up her mind. She was a believer in 
68 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


luck and in allowing herself to drift along 
with the stream of chance; the young man’s 
recommendation of Pontresina should de- 
cide her. The name was attractive — soft- 
sounding and flowing — the Engadine 
hinted at luxury and fashion. Further, 
the speaker had the clean-bred, upper- 
class air ; decent people to him must mean 
people with money, with leisure — the peo- 
ple with whom Diana desired to mix. As 
the two young men turned away from the 
counter, she took their place. 

'T want a first-class ticket to Pontre- 
sina, please,” she said. ‘‘How do you get 
there?” 

“Book to Samaden,” the youth replied 
briskly. “Drive from Samaden station. 
Via Basle, Zurich and Coire. Quickest 
way of getting there, Engadine express — 
train de luxe, extra fare — leave Gare de 
I’Est 7.45 p. m., arrive Samaden half-past 
twelve next day.” 


6g 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘That 'll do," Diana nodded. “Give me 
a ticket, please." 

And five minutes later, having ascer- 
tained that, in the opinion of the brisk 
youth, the Hotel Engadine was the smart- 
est and most desirable hotel in Pontresina, 
she turned out of the office with her ticket 
in her pocket. She wired for rooms in the 
Hotel Engadine, packed her new gar- 
ments with tissue-paper and caressing ad- 
miration and that night left Paris. . . . 
She slept comfortably to the drone of roll- 
ing wheels and with the morning she was 
among the mountains. 

She never forgot her first glimpse of 
them, aloof and unstained. They were 
incredible ; a pageant of nature that would 
pass. Then, as they stayed, came a feel- 
ing strange to her for the last six years — 
reverence, of human sensation the purest, 
which does not flourish in the by-ways and 
squalor of cities. It seemed as if the clean 
70 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


air from them swept through her soul, 
making it humble and more worthy. She 
sat entranced at the window, grateful to 
the majesty that revealed itself at every 
curve of the line. It was almost a shock 
to descend at the station and hold inter- 
course with the commonplace little human 
beings who crawled round majesty’s feet. 

To breathless reverence succeeded wild 
exhilaration as she drove along with the 
clean breath of the Alps on her face. But 
for the driver, she would have sung aloud 
and shouted, she was so unreasonably, so 
intolerably happy. And a fortnight ago 
she had been at Dobson’s, without a 
thought of what was before her. Could 
one and the same world hold things so 
utterly dissimilar as a noisy suburban 
thoroughfare and the high calm of the 
Alps? She held cheerful converse with 
the driver, delighted in his quaint Eng- 
lish, and repeating after him the names 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


of the various heights and villages as he 
pointed them out to her — Laret, Piz, 
Landguard, Piz Albris, Spiert. The cha- 
lets with their sloping roofs were unreal, 
yet familiar, they took her back to the 
nursery and a toy made in their image; 
you turned the handle and, to the accom- 
paniment of a tinkle from within, the 
whole Swiss family, including cow and 
goat, marched in parade across the ve- 
randah. She had never felt so young. 

“Hotel Engadine — zere,’’ the driver 
pointed. 

Diana surveyed it with approving eyes 
and decided that she had done well to act 
on the brisk youth’s recommendation. 
The Hotel Engadine was clearly a desir- 
able, if expensive place of residence; the 
proprietor’s manner was all that a hotel- 
keeper’s should be and her room on the 
hrst floor looked upon the glories of the 
valley and the heights. She washed and 
72 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


arranged her hair, surveying her smiling 
face in the glass, conscious that her neat 
traveling-suit was becoming and that, the 
long night journey notwithstanding, she 
looked her best. Then she ran down- 
stairs to the dining-room hungry for 
lunch. 

The room was full, the white-clothed 
tables all, or nearly all, occupied. She 
halted inside the door and looked round 
for a vacant place, well aware that she was 
being critically surveyed from every side 
but, after her satisfactory interview with 
the looking-glass, not at all disturbed by 
the knowledge. The head-waiter bowed 
and hurried forward, indicating a spot far- 
ther along the room ; a second waiter drew 
out a chair at a table on the verandah side, 
occupied only by one person — an elderly 
man. She sank into the chair, took the 
unfolded napkin handed to her, glanced at 
the menu, gave her orders and leaned back 
73 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


contentedly. Then, suddenly, her spine 
stiffened and her heart stood still. 

She had met her neighbor’s eyes — the 
eyes of the man on the opposite side of 
the table. They were gray under grayish 
eyebrows and were fixed upon her own 
sharply yet uncertainly. The keen lean 
face was puzzled and expectant — and with 
a thrill of horror she knew that the man 
was on the verge of recognition. 

If he was as yet uncertain of her iden- 
tity she had no doubts as to his. Less 
than a year ago she had eaten her bread 
with tears in one of the innumerable shops 
that bore the name of Jabez Gr inlay. Lim- 
ited. In the mantle department at Grin- 
lay’s, as in the hosiery department at 
Dobson’s, she had writhed under the heel 
of authority and finally revolted. A petu- 
lant, nervous outburst had cost her her 
place; her conduct had been brought to 
the notice of Mr. Grinlay himself by the 
74 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


manager of his Clapham establishment 
and Miss Massingberd's shrift had been 
short. 

She had only come face to face with him 
on the one occasion in which he discharged 
her ; but she had heard of him since. His 
name had appeared in that year’s list of 
^‘Birthday Honours”; he was now Sir 
Jabez Grinlay, Baronet, first of the name 
and — unless he married late in life — likely 
to be the last. A donation, running into 
four figures, to a charitable fund patron- 
ized by Royalty and boomed by newspa- 
pers was said to have procured him his 
dignity. What else had he done to de- 
serve it, except acquire money, no human 
being knew. 

Instinctively Diana flashed her eyes 
away from her neighbor’s and turned her 
face to the valley; one sign of recognition 
on her part might give Sir Jabez the clue 
he sought for. As yet he sought for it in 
75 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

vain; with the gray brows drawn together 
over his nose, he surveyed her furtively, 
studying her face, her dress, the fingers 
that crumbled the bread at the side of her 
plate. With satisfaction she felt, rather 
than saw, that they rested for a moment on 
the wedding ring that adorned her third 
finger. That was a false trail that might 
haply lead him astray. 

The silence was oppressive ; she felt that 
the mask might slip from her face at any 
moment and betray her very real anxiety. 
To be recognized and proclaimed for what 
she was would upset all her plans and, for 
one thing, necessitate an immediate ^ove 
from Pontresina. That was a smous 
consideration since she had engaged her 
room at the Hotel Engadine for a week at 
least and her expenditure on clothes in 
Paris had already made large inroads on 
her ''fortune.’’ If what was left of it was 
to last out the allotted time she could not 
76 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


afford to pay for expensive rooms which 
sh^ did not occupy. She cursed the 
crooked fate which had brought Sir Jabez 
Grinlay across her primrose path. Only 
Mr. Septimus Dobson could have been 
more unwelcome. 

The waiter thrust a plate before her 
and she bent over it, presenting the top of 
her head to her neighbor’s eyes. He had 
left off eating ; the suspense was becoming 
intolerable. Suddenly he cleared his 
throat — how well she remembered the 
scraping sound — leaned forward and ad- 
dressed her. 

'T beg your pardon — hope I ’m not tak- 
ing a^liberty — but have n’t we met before 
— somewhere?” 

The puzzled uncertainty of the tone 
gave her courage ; clearly he had not fixed 
her yet. Instinctively she felt that her cue 
was boldness ; she jerked up her head with 
a fine affectation of surprise and then, 
77 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


slowly and deliberately studied the baron- 
et's features. 

'm afraid I don't remember," she said 
with an amused inclination of the head. 

Sir Jabez reddened. Diana's tactics 
had been entirely successful. The sup- 
pressed smile, the touch of wondering as- 
tonishment had conveyed to him all that 
they were intended to convey — that he had 
made a false step and that his neighbor, 
entirely aware of her desirability as an 
acquaintance, looked upon his question as 
a ruse — as a clumsy manner of breaking 
the ice. His own faith in his capacity for 
remembering a face — he really had a re- 
markable talent in that line — failed him 
suddenly and he felt irritated with her, 
annoyed with himself, and more than a 
trifle ridiculous. He was sensible enough 
to see that the quickest way out of an em- 
barrassing situation was by frank apology. 

"T beg your pardon," he repeated, ‘T 

78 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

must have been deceived by a resemblance 
to someone I Ve met before . I hope 
you ’ll forgive me — I see so many faces.” 

Diana’s spirits bubbled up cheerfully. 
Instinctively she felt that her victory was 
complete and she began to see possibilities 
in this unexpected encounter with her for- 
mer tyrant. There was a delicious irony 
in the contrast between their present and 
former meeting — between the baronet’s 
humbled uneasy and apologetic tones and 
the curt, harsh manner and curt, harsh 
words in which he had informed her that 
he stood no dashed impudence from his 
employes and told her to clear out. Fancy 
Grinlay — Grinlay of the countless empo- 
riums, Grinlay with forty thousand 
pounds a year at his back — cringing to 
one of his former assistants. Diana’s 
voice shook with enjoyment. 

''Oh, please don’t apologize. There 
must be scores of people wandering about 
79 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


the world cut to my pattern. I don’t flat- 
ter myself nature took the trouble to in- 
vent a new design for my benefit. Would 
you mind passing the salt.” 

Sir Jabez passed it. Then, with a repe- 
tition of the familiar throat-scrape, he 
dived into his breast-pocket, produced a 
green morocco case, solemnly extracted a 
card and pushed it across the table. 

‘Terhaps, now you have accepted my 
apology, you will permit me to formally 
introduce myself,” he said with a pom- 
posity which was somewhat discounted by 
an habitual difficulty with his aspirates. 

''Sir Jabez Grinlay,” Diana read out. 
^^The Sir Jabez Grinlay, I suppose.” 

"I am not aware of the existence of a 
namesake,” the baronet returned. 

"May I say that I am charmed to meet 
you. Sir Jabez?” Diana smiled. "I — 
well, at one time and another I have heard 
a great deal about you.” 

8o 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

''Indeed? We have some mutual ac- 
quaintances, I suppose 

"No, I don’t think so; but everyone has 
heard of you — and seen your name on 
advertisements. Are you staying here 
long?” 

"A month or two. My medical man or- 
dered me rest and quiet — says I Ve been 
overdoing it. I ’m not much of a man for 
holidays as a rule — it seems to me that if 
there ’s one thing more tiring than another 
it ’s what the doctors call rest and quiet. 
Are you thinking of making a stay here, 
Mrs. — ?” 

He paused, waiting for the blank to be 
filled in. 

"Massingberd,” Diana said boldly, 
though with a quick leap of the heart. If 
she had not already entered herself as 
Mrs. Massingberd in the hotel list, she 
would have given herself an alias, since 
there was the horrible possibility that the 
8i 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

name might touch a responsive chord in 
the memory of her late employer. 

It did not. Sir Jabez Gr inlay seldom 
forgot a face but with regard to names 
his memory was not so good — in fact, the 
facility with which they slipped his recol- 
lection was apt to annoy him. His ex- 
pression did not change and Diana 
breathed again. 

'‘1 ’m thinking of staying for a week or 
two,’’ she said. ‘'It all depends on how I 
like the place, of course. Do you recom- 
mend it?” 

Sir Jabez cleared his -throat again and 
then, with slow deliberation he paid her a 
compliment. 

“If my recommendation of Pontresina 
will induce you to stay on, Mrs. Massing- 
berd,” he said, “why I recommend it as 
strongly as possible.” 

Diana hastily swallowed a gulp of wa- 
ter. Sir Jabez Gr inlay was trying to 
82 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

make her a pretty speech — Sir Jabez Grin- 
lay, whose parting recommendation had 
been ^^and don’t you ever let me see your 
impudent face again, miss!” She grew 
pink with the effort to suppress her laugh- 
ter. This unexpected revelation of the 
other soul-side of her former tyrant was 
almost more than her gravity could stand, 
the only way to preserve even a semblance 
of it was to effect an immediate change in 
the conversation. 

"‘Do tell me,” she said hurriedly, “who 
some of the people here are — I don’t know 
a soul. That woman over there at the 
corner table — who is she ? The one in the 
gray dress, I mean, with the young man 
sitting opposite — I suppose he ’s her son?” 


83 


CHAPTER IV 


S IR JABEZ looked over to the corner 
table. It was not entirely by chance 
that Diana had fixed upon its occupants 
for her first inquiry ; when she entered the 
room she had been conscious of a piercing 
stare — of the kind that the starer would 
have characterized as ^Veil-bred’’ — from 
the woman in the gray dress and of an 
equally prolonged but less critical survey 
from the china-blue eyes of her compan- 
ion. 

'That/’ said the baronet, "is Mrs. Can- 
telupe. She ’s well-connected — thinks a 
lot of herself. The young fellow ’s not her 
son — he ’s her nephew, Captain Brether- 
ton. An Honourable — the Honourable 
Victor Bretherton, fourth son of the late 

84 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Viscount Ray nes worth and brother of the 
present peer. Used to be in the Welsh 
Guards but I hear he ’s run through a pot 
of money and had to retire. I only met 
him when I came here, but I Ve come 
across Mrs. Cantelupe once or twice in 
London.’’ 

'‘Indeed,” Diana said, turning her head 
towards the window as she spoke — for, as 
if some instinct had warned him that he 
was the subject of discussion, the eyes of 
Captain the Honourable Victor Brether- 
ton had suddenly taken her direction. 

"Run through a pot of money, has he?” 
she went on lightly. "I feel quite drawn 
towards him — that ’s just what I should 
like to do myself. I ’m a recklessly ex- 
travagant person, Sir Jabez.” 

Sir Jabez contemplated her gravely. 

"That ’s a pity,” he commented. 

"A pity — you ought to be delighted to 
hear it. The more extravagant people 

8s 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

there are in the world, the better for you. 
You surely don’t imagine that you have 
built up your fortune by supplying people 
with nothing but the necessaries of life. 
You ’ve done it by tempting the money out 
of their pockets — ^by making them buy 
things they don’t really want and would 
be much better without — in short, by in- 
ducing them to be extravagant. Where 
would you economical people be if it 
weren’t for the spendthrifts? You’re 
not consistent — you don’t practise what 
you preach. If you did, you ’d give up 
window-dressing and pull down your sky- 
signs — they ’re only so many baits for the 
extravagant. You would also instruct 
your assistants to refrain from inquiring 
your customer’s next pleasure.” 

"‘You ’ve got me there,” Sir Jabez ad- 
mitted. “But I was thinking of your own 
good, Mrs. Massingberd — not of mine. 
If I may say so, I was regarding you as a 
86 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

friend — ’’ he hesitated a little over the 
word — ‘^not as a possible customer/’ 
Again Diana had hasty recourse to the 
glass of water. Sir Jabez’s attitude was 
appealing more and more to her sense of 
humor ; he was evidently most desirous to 
be friendly but, at the same time, his ad- 
vances were tinged with a shade of nerv- 
ous anxiety. The nervous anxiety was 
the result of his experiences of the last 
few days ; the new-made baronet’s lack of 
enthusiasm for the attractions of Pontre- 
sina was not entirely due to an inborn in- 
difference to the beauties of nature. In 
plain language he was ''out of it” at the 
Hotel Engadine and far too shrewd not to 
recognize the fact. His London acquaint- 
ances acknowledged him, that was all; he 
was among them, but not of them. He 
could not talk golf, he could not talk 
climbing, he could not talk motors, he 
could not talk bridge; he could have con- 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


versed intelligently enough on business, 
but business men at the Hotel Engadine 
were conspicuous by their absence. His 
amusements hitherto had consisted in sol- 
itary constitutionals which he would have 
found much more tolerable if the neigh- 
borhood had been flatter. His human 
surroundings irritated him and he looked 
down on men of the Br ether ton type just 
as much as he knew that men of the Bre- 
therton type looked down on him. In 
short, he was thoroughly uncomfortable 
and homesick for his office; but it was 
characteristic of him that, having estab- 
lished himself at the Hotel Engadine, 
Pontresina, he had no intention of leaving 
it, merely because he found it disagree- 
able. For one thing, to himself if to no- 
body else, his departure would have 
seemed like a flight; and Sir Jabez Grin- 
lay was not the man to turn his back on 
anyone. 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

All the same, his conversation with Di- 
ana Massingberd had come as a welcome 
break into the boredom of a dreary day. 
Her frank allusions to his trade and his 
wealth delighted him; with Mrs. Cante- 
lupe and her class it was etiquette to ig- 
nore the existence of Grinlay’s Empori- 
ums Limited, except when Sir Jabez 
purposely gave an uncomfortable turn to 
the conversation by bluntly referring to 
them. It was no wonder that he was anx- 
ious to make a good impression — almost 
painfully so. He was not by any means 
a talkative man, but he had begun to miss 
the sound of his own voice lately. On 
that account only, he would have desired 
to know more of Diana. 

And Diana, on her side, had every in- 
tention of improving the acquaintance. It 
was delightful to watch Sir Jabez’s efforts 
to install himself in her good graces; in- 
stead of cursing the stars that had brought 

89 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


him across her path, she discovered that 
she was deeply grateful to them. Hence- 
forth Sir Jabez Gr inlay was to be one of 
the elements in her enjoyments. She was 
glad, very glad, that she had come to Pon- 
tresina. 

The baronet, finding his advances ami- 
ably encouraged, was in no hurry to leave 
the table ; he lingered on while Mrs. Mas- 
singberd finished her luncheon. Diana 
made use of him to obtain information 
concerning her fellow guests and by the 
time she pushed back her chair and 
strolled onto the verandah she knew some 
score of them by name. 

Sir Jabez hesitated for a moment as to 
whether or not he should follow her — and 
then decided not. He did not wish to ap- 
pear to press his company upon Mrs. Mas- 
singberd; but in his own mind he decided 
upon a stratagem whereby his customary 
uninteresting constitutional should be 
90 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

brightened by her presence. She had ex- 
pressed the intention of resting for half 
an hour or so in the verandah and then 
setting out on a tour of exploration. If 
at the end of the allotted half-hour, he 
turned up ready for his walk, she would 
probably be glad to accept his offer to in- 
troduce her to the neighborhood. 

Accordingly, some five and twenty min- 
utes later, the baronet, hat on head and 
stick in hand, strolled round the corner of 
the verandah steps, peering through his 
glasses for Diana. But his neat ruse 
was doomed to failure. Her voice hailed 
him from behind, and, as he turned, she 
rose from beside one of the little round 
tables at which she had been seated, chat- 
ting to a man beside her. 

‘‘Are you looking for a chair. Sir 
Jabez?’’ she asked. “Take mine. I don’t 
want it any more. I ’m just going to run 
upstairs and put on my hat. Captain 
91 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Bretherton has promised to show me the 
way up that mountain/’ 

And with a nod and a smile she disap- 
peared through the window. Sir Jabez, 
with a dissatisfied grunt, turned on his 
heel and tramped off on his prescribed 
sixty minutes’ constitutional, leaving Bre- 
therton to await Diana’s return. 

He did not have to await it long. She 
was down again in a moment, eager to be 
off. Bretherton had to quicken his steps 
to keep up with her as they scrambled 
along the stony, upward path. His own 
inclination was to a more leisurely con- 
templation of the beauties of nature, but 
all the same her frank animal spirits in- 
fected him and he found himself laughing 
and running along at her side like a boy. 

‘^Give me a cigarette, won’t you?” she 
said as they halted for a moment to look 
down and he placed one between his own 
lips. 


92 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


''I beg your pardon/’ he returned, offer- 
ing his case, did n’t know you 
smoked.” 

don’t,” she said. ‘‘That ’s to say I ’ve 
never been used to smoking and I don’t 
think I really like it at all.” 

“Then why on earth — ?” he laughed as 
he shielded a match for her between his 
fingers. 

“Just to show I can if I like,” she 
laughed back. “Not so very long ago I 
should n’t have dared to be caught with a 
cigarette.” 

“What rot!” Bretherton commented — 
deciding in his own mind that the late Mr. 
Massingberd had been a tyrant of the first 
water. It is to be noted that in the 
course of their brief acquaintanceship he 
had already ascertained that Mr. Mas- 
singberd was “late.” 

Diana took two energetic puffs and then 
let the hand that held the cigarette drop 
93 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


to her side. She caught her breath as she 
stood looking out over the valley. 

“Don’t you despise the Swiss?” she said, 
“I do.” 

“Despise the Swiss?” the guardsman 
echoed. “No — why? What’s the mat- 
ter with ’em?” 

“A sordid incapacity to know a good 
thing when they see it,” Diana returned 
as she flung herself down on the slope and 
rubbed her fingers caressingly over the 
hot, scented turf. 

“What the dickens do you mean ?” Bre- 
therton demanded. 

Diana swept her hand comprehensively 
round the horizon. 

“They are born to all this,” she said, 
“this is their inheritance, and they leave it 
in shoals — to be waiters in London.” 

Captain Bretherton laughed cheerfully. 

“Oh, there are worse places than Lon- 
don. You don’t care, for it, I suppose, but 
94 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


I know I 'm always glad when I get back 
to it, and feel good old Pall Mall under 
my feet again/’ 

She propped her chin upon her hand and 
looked down at him as he lay outstretched 
beside her, with his cap tilted over his eyes 
and a cigarette between his lips. 

'Tall Mall,” she said; "yes, that ’s your 
London, of course — Pall Mall and Picca- 
dilly and the Park, Regent Street and the 
theaters. But that was n’t the London I 
was thinking of — I meant the other Lon- 
don — the one you don’t know.” 

"The one I don’t know!” Bretherton 
repeated. 

Diana nodded. "Yes, the ugly London 
— the London with dirty streets and badly- 
dressed people, cheap drapers and public- 
houses and fried-fish shops and rows of 
common little squalid houses. There are 
more people in that sort of London than 
there are in yours, you know — and while 
95 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


we are sitting here they are all stewing in 
it together/' 

“Poor devils," Captain Bretherton said 
sympathetically, “let 's hope they 're used 
to it. I suppose you 're interested in slum- 
min' and that sort of thing?" he added as 
an after thought. 

Diana sprang up suddenly. 

“Yes, I am interested in that sort of 
thing," she said. “I've had good cause 
to be interested in it. But I don't want 
to think of it now ; I want to think of other 
things. This is heaven and I hope my 
soul will come here when I die. Let 's get 
on — I want to go up ever so much higher." 

And she scrambled on along the rocky 
path, her seriousness entirely gone, laugh- 
ing and dashing along at a pace that im- 
pelled her companion to warn her of the 
danger of not attending to her foot-steps. 

“These slopes are beastly dangerous," 
he explained. “They don't look it, but if 
96 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

you once get off the track and begin slid- 
ing down a fairly steep one, there 'd be 
nothing to stop you till you are pitched 
into the stream at the bottom. With all 
these loose stones rollin’ about on the path, 
you ’d better keep an eye on your feet.” 

'Thanks,” Diana returned, "I can keep 
an eye on my feet any time. Just now 
I want to keep an eye on the view.” 

They went up almost to the snow-line; 
then, striking another path, they began to 
descend and, when they came upon a cha- 
let, Bretherton proposed a halt for refresh- 
ment. They drank coffee and ate 
brownish bread and butter with great sat- 
isfaction; Diana had never enjoyed a meal 
more. She was hungry and thirsty with 
her exertions, the coffee was excellent, the 
sweep of the valley and the peaks beyond 
a perfect background to her bodily con- 
tent; further, her companion interested 
and amused her. She liked listening to 
97 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

his talk, even though — perhaps because — 
it aroused in her again the sensation of 
hearing an unfamiliar language. He pre- 
ferred Switzerland in winter, he told her; 
he had been twice — once to Klosters, once 
to St. Moritz — to toboggan. He de- 
scribed the glories of the Cresta run as 
eloquently as his limited, unemotional 
English would permit; gave her, to the 
second, the time in which he himself had 
performed the run, compared it regret- 
fully with the record. Diana, with her 
elbow on the table and her chin upon her 
palm, listened, nodding now and again, 
amused by her own reflections. How in- 
terested he seemed in what he was telling 
her, and what a child he was beside her — 
this good-natured young man with the 
china-blue eyes and the slow, hesitating 
manner of speech. He was a big boy who 
had not outgrown his playthings; all the 
things that to her were play to him were 
98 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

earnest, the business of life. And of the 
real, earnest business of life — the need to 
work which is the need to eat, the fierce 
struggle to find a niche and a place and 
a foothold in the world — he knew noth- 
ing. He sat up above it all in the peace 
of the gods, troubled only when he missed 
his bird badly or made a poor stroke at 
golf. She led him on, mischievously, cu- 
riously, though not unkindly (she liked 
him too much to be unkind) to talk of his 
own concerns, including his recently 
closed career in the Welsh Guards. He 
did not need much encouragement; away 
up on the hillside, with the world to them- 
selves, they had grown more intimate and 
confidential than they might have done in 
a month elsewhere. 

As regards his retirement from the 
army, he was regretful — ^but philosophical. 
Of course he had been sorry to chuck the 
service ; but a poor man had no business to 
99 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


enter the service, so that was an end of it. 

'Then what are you going to do in the 
future?’’ Diana asked. 

Captain Bretherton shrugged his shoul- 
ders. 

"Don’t know yet — wait till something 
turns up, I suppose. My brother says 
he’ll use his interest to get me an appoint- 
ment as soon as there ’s a decent one go- 
ing. Meanwhile I ’ve got enough to 
muddle along with.” 

Diana smiled slowly as she looked across 
the valley at the shadows that were be- 
ginning to gather and blacken on the op- 
posite heights. A few minutes before he 
had let slip the amount of his inadequate, 
younger son’s income — six hundred a 
year. Enough to muddle along with. 
And she, with three hundred pounds as 
the sum total of her wealth ! Her mouth 
twitched suddenly as she wondered wheth- 
er Victor Bretherton’s money had ever 


lOO 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


purchased him anything so well worth 
having as the routing of Septimus Dob- 
son. She thought not. 

Following her eyes, he too noticed the 
deepening shadows and drew out his 
watch. 

''About time we were gettin’ on, eh? 
I ’m not over sure about the way back and 
I Ve promised to turn up at the theatricals 
to-night, so we must n’t be late for dinner. 
You’re coming, I suppose?” 

"I don’t know — I haven’t heard any- 
thing about them.” 

"Oh, you ’d better come. Jimmy Tolle- 
mache is getting them up. He ’s rigged 
up a stage in the music-room and he and 
Mrs. Monck and Lady Catherine Fisher 
and a lot of others have been rehearsing 
away for a week. I hear they ’re all jolly 
bad, but we may as well go and have a 
look at ’em — there ’s nothing else on to- 
night.” 

lOI 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


They plunged downwards into the cool 
gray between the mountains while the 
peaks above them glowed and grew won- 
derful. Diana was hushed into silence; 
Bretherton talked indifferently or puffed 
at a cigarette. His obvious little remarks 
about things that did not matter in the 
least had the effect of irritating her at 
times — yet on the whole she was glad to 
have had him with her. He was kindly, 
good-natured, companionable — ridiculous 
of course from her point of view, but that 
was not his own fault but the fault of his 
narrow breeding. 

As she dressed for dinner that night she 
found herself wondering what he would 
think of her gown — a "'creation’’ from the 
Rue de la Paix which as yet no eyes but 
her own and the dressmaker’s had ad- 
mired. The long glass in her bedroom 
told her she had nothing to fear; and, as 
the distant strains of a string band 


102 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


reached her from the dining-room, she 
stood for a minute swaying lightly before 
her reflection, exuberantly happy. Then 
she ran downstairs. 


T03 


CHAPTER V 


M rs. CANTELUPE was not happy. 

Her usually smooth brow — she was 
a wonderfully well-preserved woman — 
was furrowed into at least three lines. 
She was thinking deeply over the events 
of the last few days; she was wondering 
what the next few days would bring forth. 
She was in deep perplexity and had no one 
to consult. 

The cause alike of her meditations and 
her perplexity was Diana Massingberd — 
now for five days an inmate of the Hotel 
Engadine. 

From Mrs. Cantelupe’s point of viev; 
the history of these five days had been as 
follows : 

Day one. Within an hour of her ar- 
104 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


rival at the Hotel Engadine Captain the 
Honourable Victor Bretherton had intro- 
duced himself — in what manner unascer- 
tained — to Mrs. Massingberd. During 
the afternoon he had accompanied her for 
a walk; during the evening’s theatrical 
performance he had occupied the seat next 
to her own. 

Day two. Mrs. Massingberd, on a 
donkey, had ridden off with the Carews’ 
picnic-party — Captain Bretherton, on an- 
other donkey beside her. Though on this 
particular point no direct evidence was 
forthcoming, Mrs. Cantelupe felt justi- 
fied in concluding that it was at Captain 
Bretherton’s instigation that Mrs. Carew 
had extended an invitation to Mrs. Mas- 
singberd — since the Carews had had no 
previous acquaintance with the new ar- 
rival. 

Day three. With regard to the earlier 
part of the day, no particulars obtainable. 

105 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


In the evening, a dance being held at the 
Hotel Victoria, Captain Bretherton, ac- 
cording to the evidence of reliable wit- 
nesses, waltzed twice with Mrs. Massing- 
berd, sat out another dance with her and 
took her in to supper. This item of the 
day^s proceedings was the more significant 
since Captain Bretherton was not a danc- 
ing man. 

Day four. Inquiries revealed the fact 
that Mrs. Massingberd had been escorted 
by Captain Bretherton to the links at Sam- 
aden, with the object of teaching her golf. 
In the evening Captain Bretherton joined 
a party on the verandah — of which Mrs. 
Massingberd was the center of attraction. 

Day five. The golfing lessons having 
been discontinued owing to Mrs. Massing- 
berd's distaste for the game, she and Cap- 
tain Bretherton had departed after lunch 
on a pedestrian expedition to the Morte- 
io6 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


ratsch Glacier, returning only just in time 
for dinner. 

Under these circumstances it was no 
wonder that the question uppermost in the 
mind of Mrs. Cantelupe was 'Who is Mrs. 
Massingberd 

She had put the question, with increas- 
ing earnestness, to several of her acquaint- 
ances during the last day or two; but in 
no case had the answer been satisfactory. 
Beyond the fact that on one particular 
Wednesday afternoon Mrs. Massingberd 
had descended upon the Hotel Engadine 
from the outer world, nobody knew any- 
thing about her. Jimmy Tollemache, who 
was supposed to know everyone, when 
pressed on the subject could only opine 
that she was a very charming little 
woman. 

"Oh, of course she’s charming,’^ Mrs. 
Cantelupe had returned pettishly, "but 
107 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

that’s not what I mean. Who is she?” 

Jimmy could only advise that the ques- 
tion should be referred to Mrs. Massing- 
berd herself. 

'Dr why don’t you get Victor to pump 
her,” he suggested mischievously. "He ’s 
always about with the fair Diana — did 
you know that was her name, by the by? 
Suits her, doesn’t it? — I dare say she 
wouldn’t object to confiding her family 
tree to him — if she ’s got one, that ’s to 
say.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe’s anxiety was excus- 
able ; and it was growing unbearable. She 
had not the faintest doubt that her nephew 
was on the verge of falling in love — if he 
had not already fallen in love — with Diana 
Massingberd; her unhappy state of mind 
was due to an unavoidable uncertainty as 
to whether the growing attachment 
should be stifled or encouraged. 

At present she dared not make a move 
io8 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

in either direction. She was bound hand 
and foot until she had obtained an answer 
to that persistent ^'Who is Mrs. Massing- 
berd?’’ The question meant, in this in- 
stance, not so much what were Mrs. Mas- 
singberd’s qualifications with regard to 
birth and gentility, as what were her re- 
sources, and would they be equal to the 
strain of supporting Captain the Honour- 
able Victor Bretherton? 

By bitter experience Mrs. Cantelupe 
knew what that strain was. During four 
complaining years — ever since Lord 
Raynesworth had repudiated any further 
responsibility for his younger brother’s 
debts — she had paid her favorite nephew’s 
bills with machine-like regularity. The 
process had only come to an end a few 
weeks before when, urged on to action by 
her bankers and her solicitor, she had met 
a further demand from her graceless rela- 
tive by laying before his eyes the sum total 
109 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


of his expenditure during the last four 
years, refusing to allow him a penny in 
the future and making his immediate re- 
tirement from the Guards a condition of a 
final settling up. Greatly to her relief — 
for she had a real tenderness for Victor in 
her childless, elderly heart — the culprit ac- 
cepted the situation with his customary 
good-temper ; explained that he really 
hadn’t had the least idea he’d spent all 
that money; and, admitting the impossi- 
bility of continuing in his present way of 
life on his own inadequate resources, made 
no difficulty at all about sending in his 
papers. 

It was no wonder that, with that experi- 
ence behind her, Mrs. Cantelupe felt that 
Victor Bretherton, of all men, had need to 
be careful in taking unto himself a wife. 
Whatever other qualifications that wife 
possessed, one she must have — money. 
Not only money enough for her own needs 


no 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

but money for her husband’s — for Mrs. 
Cantelupe was not sanguine enough to 
suppose that, by the mere fact of removing 
him from an expensive regiment, she had 
overcome her nephew’s constitutional ina- 
bility to live within his income. In her 
own mind and after careful calculation, 
she had decided that the woman Victor 
married must be possessed of a clear two 
thousand a year at the very least. In the 
past she had more than once attempted to 
settle her nephew comfortably in life by 
securing for him a wife with the necessary 
financial qualifications ; but, so far, not the 
slightest success had attended her efforts. 

To begin with, Victor Bretherton was 
not at all susceptible — which rendered his 
present speedy subjugation by Diana Mas- 
singberd the more remarkable. 

To Mrs. Massingberd, personally, the 
careful aunt had no objection. She was 
smart, well-dressed, attractive — decidedly 


III 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


so. If she possessed the necessary in- 
come, she was eminently desirable; were 
her doubts on that particular once re- 
moved, Mrs. Cantelupe would welcome 
her with open arms. To all appearances, 
she was well-off; but it did not do to trust 
entirely to outward appearances and fash- 
ionable hotels were notoriously the hunt- 
ing-ground of the woman in search of a 
husband. Hopelessly ineligible as he was 
in other respects, Victor Bretherton was 
the son of a peer ; it was quite possible that 
his courtesy title might be an attraction 
in Mrs. Massingberd's eyes. 

Mrs. Cantelupe sighed — almost groaned 
— and dropped her tatting onto her knees. 
If Mrs. Massingberd should prove ineligi- 
ble, immediate action was necessary ; with- 
out loss of time Victor must be swept, 
transported, whirled away from the influ- 
ence of his charmer. Yet it would be 
madness to take such a step without full 


II2 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


knowledge of the facts ; by precipitate and 
unreasonable flight she might ruin her 
nephew^s chances for life, not to mention 
her own chances of enjoying an income 
unhampered by his constant calls upon it. 
No wonder Mrs. Cantelupe groaned; her 
uncertainty was pitiable. 

In desperation at the ill success of her 
inquiries, she had finally resolved to tackle 
Mrs. Massingberd herself — to get hold of 
her and fish, dive and dig for the truth. 
Half an hour's private conversation, she 
told herself, could not fail to provide her 
with a clue; even if Mrs. Massingberd 
were suspicious and uncommunicative, 
something would crop up — for instance 
the name of a mutual acquaintance of 
whom inquiries might be made. 

The difficulty, hitherto, had been to ob- 
tain half an hour’s uninterrupted conver- 
sation with a person restlessly energetic 
and so much in demand as Diana Mas- 


113 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

singberd. During the last two days Mrs. 
Cantelupe had manoeuvred in vain to- 
wards the end she desired — Diana was 
either not to be found, or found sur- 
rounded by half a dozen people. But, 
with irritated patience, Mrs. Cantelupe 
had bided her time and, finally, fate had 
been kind to her. She had been half-way 
through her dinner that night when Vic- 
tor hurried in — back late from the Mor- 
teratsch Glacier expedition. Five min- 
utes later Diana had put in an appearance, 
radiant in pink. 

As she made for the door, leaving her 
nephew to work his way through the 
menu, Mrs. Cantelupe paused beside 
Diana’s table. 

‘If you Ve nothing else to do, Mrs. 
Massingberd,” she smiled, “won’t you 
come and have your coffee with us to- 
night? In my sitting-room — you know 
which it is, don’t you? Number eleven 
1 14 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


on the ground floor. That ’s right — so 
glad you can come. Don’t hurry over 
your dinner — I sha’ n’t order coffee just 
yet.” 

So far, so good. Mrs. Massingberd 
was coming — but then so was her nephew. 
Nor was he likely to find attraction else- 
where while Mrs. Massingberd occupied 
his aunt’s sitting-room. If only she could 
get rid of him — it would be possible 
to give the conversation the femininely 
confidential turn for which she hoped 
while Victor was not about. She sighed 
again — and then rose quickly as a waiter 
flung open the door and announced — 

‘‘Mrs. Whyte-Fraser.” 

With her wrist lifted to the correct 
angle for the coming hand-shake and a 
cloak flung over her dinner-dress — she 
had walked over from the Hotel Victoria 
— Mrs. Whyte-Fraser sailed into the 
room. Mrs. Cantelupe’s heart leaped; 
IIS 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Providence had been kind to her at last. 
She desired no better ally than Eleanor 
Whyte-Fraser. Eleanor was a connec- 
tion of the Cantelupes, a woman to whom 
the position could be safely explained, a 
woman whose assistance could safely be 
asked. 

Mrs. Cantelupe was not long in asking 
it. She only gave Eleanor Whyte-Fraser 
a short two minutes to expatiate in her 
languid, high-pitched voice on the dis- 
comforts of the journey from London to 
Pontresina, and then she plunged straight 
into the middle of the subject and laid 
bare her perplexity. 

‘‘You see how it is, Eleanor. What 
am I to do? I must — I literally must — 
find out something about her before I let 
Victor entangle himself hopelessly. You 
can see that — the idea of him, with barely 
six hundred a year, marrying a woman 
who was not well off — madness!’’ 

ii6 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Mrs. Whyte-Fraser agreed. 

"'I knew you ’d say so. I assure you 
I ’m at my wit’s end. I Ve made in- 
quiries right and left among the people 
here. Not a soul knows anything about 
her — not a soul.” 

Mrs. Whyte-Fraser pondered. 

‘‘Massingberd — Massingberd. I sup- 
pose she isn’t any connection of Mrs. 
Jimmy Sinclair’s? She was a Massing- 
berd, you know, before she was married.” 

"'I have n’t the least idea. All I know 
about her is that she once had a husband 
— she does n’t seem to have mentioned any 
of her people, except him.” 

‘^And what has she told you about the 
husband ?” Eleanor inquired. 

"'She has n’t told me anything at all 
about him. For one thing, I have never 
asked her anything about him — I have n’t 
had the chance. I have only spoken to 
her three or four times. I understand — 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

from Victor — that they were only married 
for a short time and that Mr. Massingberd 
was a good deal older than herself.’^ 
'That sounds hopeful/’ Mrs. Whyte- 
Fraser suggested. "An elderly husband 
usually means money.” 

"Yes, I know — but my dear Eleanor, 
one has to be so careful in these foreign 
hotels. Victor’s whole future may be at 
stake. Something must be done imme- 
diately — immediately. At present I dare 
say I could get him away from her if it 
turned out to be necessary; but if things 
are let to take their course for a few days 
more ... I assure you, Eleanor, he 
is with her from morning till night. She 
really is an attractive-looking woman — 
has a distinct style of her own and knows 
how to put her clothes on. If only she is 
all that she seems to be, as regards money, 
it would be the best thing that could pos- 
sibly happen to Victor; a sensible mar- 
118 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

riage of the kind is what I Ve always been 
hoping for him/' 

''Of course," Mrs. Whyte-Fraser mur- 
mured. Her point of view was Mrs. 
Cantelupe's exactly. "It would be 
dreadful for you if he did anything fool- 
ish — married a woman he couldn't sup- 
port—" 

"I should wash my hands of him if he 
did," Mrs. Cantelupe said desperately, 
appalled by the prospect. "Fond as I am 
of him, Eleanor, I should wash my hands 
of him altogether. But I don't think — 
I really do n't think — he could be quite so 
idiotic. He knows perfectly wel^that there 
is not a penny coming to him from anyone 
— not a penny. I can't leave him any- 
thing, you know — I only have a life inter- 
est and the principal is settled on the 
Frederick Cantelupes. Still, men do be- 
have like lunatics over love affairs some- 
times — and that is exactly why I feel I 
1 19 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


must get to the bottom of this business at 
once. And there is only one way to do it 
— ^by tackling Mrs. Massingberd herself.’' 

Eleanor nodded approvingly. 

‘'Good. If she has nothing to hide 
she '11 be quite willing to talk — and you 're 
the right person to make her talk. When 
are you going to try?” 

“Now — directly. I Ve asked her to 
come in here as soon as she has finished 
her dinner — for coffee. She may be here 
at any moment. Eleanor, I 'm relying on 
your good-nature to help me?” 

“On my good-nature?” 

“Yes — to get Victor out of the way. 
He '11 be here too — and I want to get rid 
of him. It 's an abominably rude thing 
to ask you, of course, but will you, as soon 
as you have swallowed your coffee, drag 
him off with you to the Victoria — and 
keep him there as long as you can? Say 
Major Whyte-Fraser is dying to see him 


120 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


— say anything you like — only manage to 
get him out of the way while I have a 
quarter of an hour alone with Mrs. Mas- 
singberd.’’ 

‘‘Agreed/’ Mrs. Whyte-Fraser laughed. 


I2I 


CHAPTER VI 


D iana did not go straight from the 
dining-room to Number Eleven on 
the ground floor. For a few minutes she 
wanted to be alone, that she might think. 
So she ran upstairs to her bedroom, 
switched on the light and sat down by the 
dressing-table. 

She rested her elbow on the table and 
stared gravely into the glass — holding 
commune with herself. Her eyes looked 
into their own reflection, steadily and with 
hardly a flicker. She was asking herself 
what she was going to do — what was to 
be her future attitude towards Captain 
Victor Bretherton. 

She spoke aloud to her own reflection. 
^T have only known him for five days,’' 


122 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

she said slowly, ''but I think — though, of 
course, I may be entirely mistaken — that 
he is beginning to get rather fond of me/’ 
That was the position; she had to con- 
sider it. It was necessary to consider it 
at once, for the next move lay with her. 
Of course, as she had said, there was the 
possibility that she was wrong in her es- 
timate of the ex-guardsman’s feelings; as 
an admirer Bretherton was singularly un- 
emotional, and she could not recall any 
definite speech or action by which he had 
at all committed himself. But he liked to 
be with her ; he liked to be alone with her ; 
he had been almost sulky the day before 
when Sir Jabez Gr inlay had tacked him- 
self onto them and strolled back to the 
hotel in their company. He was always 
on the lookout for her, when possible he 
was always at her side — and the good- 
natured readiness with which others re- 
signed her companionship when he was 
123 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


present showed that his preference had 
not been marked by her eyes alone. 

Admitting, then, that she had tangible 
grounds for believing that Bretherton 
cared for her, what was she to do? Was 
it fair to him to stop on in Pontresina and 
meet him day by day? Would it not be 
more kindly, more honest, to break off 
their acquaintanceship at once? In two 
days’ time the week for which she had 
taken her room at the Hotel Engadine 
would be up. She had only to tell the 
landlord that she did not intend to stay 
on — and vanish out of Victor’s ken. 

If she had continued her conversation 
with the looking-glass and spoken her 
thoughts on the subject aloud, they would 
have run something after this fashion: 

'^There is no reason why I should go. 
I came here to enjoy myself — and I am 
enjoying myself ; I ’ve made lots of friends 
124 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


and I ’m having the time of my life. How 
do I know whether I shall have such a 
good time anywhere else? Why should 
I allow him to spoil my pleasure ? 

''I have had so little pleasure in my life 
that surely I have a right to take it where 
I can get it and however I like, without 
worrying about other people. If they get 
hurt, it is not my fault; nobody has ever 
minded when they hurt me. All the same, 
I do n’t want to hurt him if I can help it. 
There is something about him that I like. 
He is n’t a bit clever, he reminds me of a 
great, big child, with his head full of 
nothing but golf and seven-course din- 
ners. I do n’t think he ever troubles 
much about anything else — except me. 
Still, I like him. I know that if he found 
out about Dobson’s and Grinlay’s he 
would never look at me again; but that 
is n’t altogether his fault. I should be 

125 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


like that, I suppose, if I had had Lord 
Raynesworth for a father and Mrs. Cante- 
lupe for an aunt. 

''If I stop on in Pontresina and if he 
really cares, I shall have to refuse 

him. . . 

At that point her meditations halted. 
Her eyes fell from their reflection to the 
toilet-cover; and remained there till the 
striking of a clock in the corridor roused 
her suddenly in remembrance of the fact 
that Mrs. Cantelupe was expecting her for 
coffee in Number Eleven. She sprang up 
and patted her hair hastily before the 
glass. Her face was a little paler than 
it had been when she came upstairs — but 
her mind was quite made up. The next 
day she would tell Herr Ritter that she 
was moving on ; it would be kinder. 

She ran quickly downstairs and opened 
the door of Number Eleven with an apol- 
ogy for her lateness. Mrs. Cantelupe and 
126 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


her nephew were not alone ; in the middle 
of the room Mrs. Whyte-Fraser lounged 
in an arm-chair and Sir Jabez Gr inlay 
rose from the obscurity near the window. 
He had strolled in, unasked, from the 
verandah and — perhaps, because he heard 
that Mrs. Massingberd was coming — had 
stayed. From Mrs. Cantelupe’s point of 
view, his presence was regrettable. 

While her nephew rang for coffee, Mrs. 
Cantelupe effected the introductions. 

‘'Mrs. Massingberd, Mrs. Whyte-Fra- 
ser. Do take a more comfortable chair, 
Mrs. Massingberd — I am sure you must 
be dreadfully tired.” 

“Me?” Diana queried. “Oh. dear, no 
— why should I be tired ?” 

“My nephew has just been telling me 
that you and he went for some tremen- 
dous expedition this afternoon — to the 
Morteratsch Glacier, was n’t it ?” 

Diana laughed. For the first time 
127 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

since she had come to Pontresina she felt 
the need of laughter and much talking, 
and knew that her spirits would flag with- 
out them. It was as if a breath from the 
outer world — the cold world, the real 
world — had found its way into her pleas- 
ant hothouse. She spoke fast and glibly. 

“Oh, yes, we walked to the Morteratsch 
Glacier; but I should hardly call that a 
tremendous expedition. I don’t suppose 
it ’s more than six miles there and back, 
do you. Captain Bretherton? Six miles — 
I don’t think anything of that.” 

“You ’re a great walker then, Mrs. 
Massingberd ?” Sir Jabez suggested. 

Diana looked at him with sudden mis- 
chief. 

“I don’t know that I should describe 
myself as a great walker. Sir Jabez; but 
I ’m used to being on my feet all day.” 

She had long lost all fear of recognition 
on his part, and, more than once, she had 
128 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


ventured on similar speeches in his pres- 
ence, enjoying his utter failure to grasp 
her veiled allusions to the life behind the 
counter. The only remark her own 
called forth in this instance was from Mrs. 
Whyte-Fraser, who, as the waiter entered 
with the coffee, roused herself from the 
contemplation of Mrs. Massingberd’s 
hand-made embroideries to say lan- 
guidly — 

‘Dear me — ^how delightfully strong 
you must be. The one thing I cannot do 
is to stand about.'’ 

She slipped her arms out of her cloak 
and, at Mrs. Cantelupe's request, began 
to pour out the coffee; their hostess, ask- 
ing to be excused, had retired to the 
neighborhood of the lamp with a handful 
of letters which the waiter had brought 
in on the tray. Captain Bretherton 
handed the cups round, remarking, as he 
did so, that coffee was the only thing in 
129 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


the way of refreshment that the hotel cook 
knew how to turn out. 

‘'Otherwise the cookin ^s simply beastly/’ 
he grumbled. “That soup to-night was 
a disgrace — mysterious brown lumps 
floatin’ about in a plateful of warm grease. 
A revoltin’ concoction, I called it. Did n’t 
you think so, Mrs. Massingberd ?” 

If there was one thing about Brether- 
ton that irritated Diana more than an- 
other it was his constant insistence on 
the immense importance of his food. She 
had all a woman’s natural indifference to 
her meals; further, after a long course 
of tough meat, weak tea and “bread and 
scrape,” it was hardly likely that she 
would have any serious fault to find with 
the fare provided at the Hotel Engadine. 
She had little sympathy with Victor’s re- 
peated complaints on the subject; and, 
more than once, she had felt that, if her 
admirer had liked his dinner a little less, 
130 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


she could have liked him a good deal more. 

‘^The soup/’ she said indifferently. 
^Was it so nasty as all that? Do you 
know I really did n’t notice.” 

Captain Bretherton looked at her in 
genuine astonishment. Women, he knew, 
were extraordinarily lacking in discrim- 
ination where meals were concerned; but 
even a woman could hardly have failed 
to resent the outrage upon British palates 
which had that night been placed before 
them in the guise of soup. 

''You surely do n’t mean to say that you 
swallowed the stuff?” he asked incredu- 
lously. 

Diana reflected and then nodded. "I 
suppose I must have done so. Yes, I re- 
member I did, and that I not only swal- 
lowed it, but thoroughly enjoyed it — in the 
first place, because I was exceedingly 
hungry and, in the second place, because 
I came here to enjoy everything, even that 

131 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 


revolting soup, and when I set out to en- 
joy myself, I don’t allow soup or any- 
thing else to be the fly in my ointment. If 
the fly gets in without asking my permis- 
sion, I simply pretend he is n’t there.” 

Her spirits were climbing up again rap- 
idly. Her own quick flow of talk, the 
neighborhood of Bretherton’s smiling blue 
eyes, Mrs. Whyte-Fraser’s critically ap- 
proving survey of her trailing gown and 
the softened beat of a Strauss waltz that 
someone was playing in the music-room 
— all had an effect upon her, and she felt 
a different woman from the Diana who 
had conversed with her reflected image 
a little time before. For the time being 
she had forgotten the real world; she was 
back in the hothouse — the place where 
sheltered men and women played at life 
and living. 

‘'Sounds as if you were a what-d’-you- 
132 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


call-it — Christian Scientist/’ Bretherton 
commented. 

Diana shook her head. “Oh, no, I ’m 
afraid I ’m much too material to be a 
Christian Scientist. I like the good 
things of life — when I can get them — and 
plenty of them. And I hate the bad 
things of life, when they are really bad — 
you ’d be surprised to know how much I 
hate them. But just at present I ’m hav- 
ing a good time — a real good time — 
and I refuse to allow any little disagree- 
ables to interfere with it.” 

“That ’s what I call taking an ’oliday 
in the right spirit/’ Sir Jabez said approv- 
ingly, while Mrs. Whyte-Fraser shivered 
at the dropped “h.” “That ’s getting your 
money’s worth, Mrs. Massingberd. I only 
wish Switzerland was as much to my taste 
as it is to yours.” 

“That ’s what I came here for. Sir Ja- 

133 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


bez/' Diana nodded, ‘'to get my money’s 
worth — and I ’m getting it.” 

An exclamation from Mrs. Cantelupe 
turned their heads in her direction. She 
was on her feet with a sheaf of closely 
written pages in her hand and irritation 
in her face. 

“What’s the matter, Aunt Emma?” 
Victor inquired. “Anything wrong?” 

There was. Something very wrong. 
Waving the sheaf about, Mrs. Cantelupe 
explained excitedly. Her sister-in-law 
had written in despair — a fearful blow 
had befallen her. Her best-looking 
daughter had engaged herself to a hope- 
less ineligible; remonstrances were of no 
avail — she and the ineligible expressed the 
intention of getting married without de- 
lay. 

“And what Milly can possibly see in him 
I can ’t think,” Mrs. Cantelupe moaned. 
“You remember him, Eleanor — he was 

134 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


staying at the Shafto’s when we were 
there, last September? The fair little 
man with no eyebrows and projecting 
teeth? It ’s really too dreadful — and Ad- 
elaide says he literally has n’t a penny. 
What they ’re going to live upon, heaven 
only knows! If there was anything at- 
tractive about him one could understand 
it — but an insignificant-looking little crea- 
ture like that 1” 

Mrs. Whyte-Fraser was duly sympa- 
thetic; Diana wondered what was the ex- 
act translation into the pounds, shillings 
and pence of plain English and arithmetic 
of the hopeless phrase '‘he literally has n’t 
a penny.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe gathered up the sheaf 
and glanced at the clock. 

"It ’s too late for the post to-night, but 
I must just scribble Adelaide a line — it 
will go out first thing in the morning. She 
does n’t know I ’m here and her letter has 


135 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


been following me about — she ’ll think me 
so unsympathetic and unfeeling. You 
will forgive me, Mrs. Massingberd, won’t 
you — and you won’t run away till I come 
back. I shall only be a very few minutes. 
Poor Adelaide — I really can ’t bear to 
think of her feelings, Eleanor. The only 
good-looking one of all that flock of 
girls!” 

And Mrs. Cantelupe swept out of the 
room, overflowing with sympathy for Ade- 
laide’s shattered hopes. 

As the door closed behind her and the 
atmosphere settled down into its former 
calm, Mrs. Whyte-Fraser picked up the 
broken thread of the conversation by ad- 
dressing herself to Diana. 

''You like Pontresina, Mrs. Massing- 
berd?” 

Diana nodded emphatically over her 
cup. 

"Like it ! That ’s a very mild way of 
136 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


expressing it. I delight in the place. It ’s 
a new sensation to me.’’ 

^'A new sensation?” Mrs. Whyte-Fra- 
ser repeated. 

‘'Yes — the mountains, the air, every- 
thing. You see, I have never been in 
Switzerland before and, until the other 
day, I had never seen a mountain with 
snow on it, except in a picture. I have n’t 
got over the thrill yet.” 

Captain Bretherton laughed in the tone 
of a man to whom the incomprehensible 
has suddenly been made clear. 

“Oh, now I understand,” he said, “why 
it is that you ’re so keen on all these wa- 
terfalls and glaciers and things round 
here.” 

“Which means, I suppose,” Diana re- 
turned, “that, as far as you are concerned, 
you have reached the blase stage and are 
not keen on waterfalls and glaciers and 
things any longer.” 


137 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Captain Bretherton assented, with res- 
ervations. 

''Of course they ’re very fine — and mag- 
nificent — and all that,” he said vaguely. 
"But you ’ll find, when once you Ve got 
used to ’em, that one mountain ’s awfully 
like another mountain, especially when 
they ’ve both got snow on top. I ’ve come 
to the conclusion that there ’s a strong 
family likeness about Alps — I can hardly 
tell which of ’em I ’m looking at myself.” 

"I wish you ’d told me that before,” Di- 
ana said reproachfully. 

"Why?” 

"Because for the last two or three days 
I ’ve been relentlessly dragging you about 
in different directions to look at what you 
probably imagined was the same monoto- 
nous mountain with the same identical 
snow on the top. I really ought to apolo- 
gize.” 

Captain Bretherton protested. 

138 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

''Oh, come now, Mrs. Massingberd, you 
know I did n’t mean that. I ’ve enjoyed 
the walks awfully — even though I ’m not 
so great on Alpine scenery as you are. 
It ’s tremendously good of you to let me 
go with you.” 

Diana shook her head obstinately. 

"It ’s very kind and polite of you to say 
so, of course; but, after the confession of 
boredom you have just made, I shall never 
dare to ask you to come with me again. I 
shall have to look out for some simple and 
unsophisticated Cook’s tourist to keep me 
company — and share my enthusiasms and 
illusions.” 

"The sort of cheerful bounder that takes 
his five guinea’s worth of lovely Lucerne, 
eh?” Bretherton suggested. "Suit you 
down to the ground.” 

"Do you know,” Mrs. Whyte-Fraser’s 
high-pitched voice chimed in, "I always 
wonder who those extraordinary people 

139 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

can be, and what they do at other times, 
when they are not taking five guinea’s 
worth of lovely Lucerne.” 

She paused, shot an almost impercep- 
tible glance over her shoulder at Sir Jabez 
Grinlay’s stolid, expressionless face and 
went on — 

'Tom says he believes that for the re- 
maining fifty-one weeks of the year they 
are occupied in handing stocking’s or sau- 
sages over a counter.” 

"Very likely,” Sir Jabez said curtly — 
his face still stolid and expressionless. It 
was Diana who flushed a little as she 
turned her head swiftly. Again the gulf 
had opened ; the gulf, sometimes concealed 
but always there, fixed, fixed immutably 
between the toiler and the pleasant idler 
who despised his toil — and, despising it, 
yet lived on it. Almost before she re- 
alized what she was doing, she was de- 
fending her own class. 

140 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

‘‘Quite likely/’ she said. “You see, that 
sort of person is usually in the unfortunate 
position of having its living to earn.” 

Her sarcasm was entirely lost on Mrs. 
Whyte-Fraser. 

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” she agreed 
amiably. “But then need that make the 
poor things so aggressively unorna- 
mental ?” 

The light, contemptuous, laughing 
phrase conjured up, in a flash, a picture 
to Diana’s eyes — or rather two. The 
first, herself as she had looked a month 
ago in the dormitory glass at Dobson’s — 
heavy-eyed and pallid, with sullen, white 
lips drawn down at the corners. The sec- 
ond, the reflection at which she had 
glanced before she descended to the din- 
ing-room that night — a confident, smiling 
face with warm cheeks and lips and below 
it the curves and swathed lines of a frock 
from the Rue de la Paix. Her eyes grew 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


brighter and wider as she leaned towards 
Mrs. Whyte-Fraser. 

''Do you know/' she said, "I am rather 
inclined to think that there are difficulties 
— almost insuperable difficulties — in the 
way of being useful and ornamental at the 
same time. Strictly speaking, we of the 
ornamental classes are not useful ; and the 
useful class — the class that earns its own 
living and other people's dividends — is sel- 
dom decorative." 

Mrs. Whyte-Fraser smiled vaguely. 
Diana's economics left her withers quite 
unwrung. Dividends, to her, were the 
automatic result of invested capital. You 
put so much money into a good thing and 
you got five per cent. How you got it 
might be known to people "in the 
City"; it was not known to her. She 
seized on the part of Diana's speech that 
she had understood. 

"Well, it 's to be hoped, then, that the 
142 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

five-guinea tourist is only half as useful 
as he looks. If your theory is correct, his 
value to the community must be enormous. 
There were dozens of him — and her — in 
the train yesterday and I must say, great- 
ly as I dislike the species, I really pitied 
them. Nearly all of them staggered 
ashore at Boulogne palpably and unbecom- 
ingly the worse for the crossing — it was 
simply atrocious — and they were forth- 
with stowed away like sardines into sec- 
ond-class carriages with the prospect of a 
night of unmitigated misery before them. 
I wondered what on earth induced them to 
spend their money on undergoing that tor- 
ture?’’ 

Sir Jabez cleared his throat disapprov- 
ingly. 

''Some form of temporary insanity, I 
should say. They ’d much better have 
kept their savings in their pockets and 
stopped at ’ome.” 


143 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Diana flashed round on her new oppo- 
nent. 

‘‘I don’t agree with you — not in the 
very least. And I know what the induce- 
ment was, Mrs. Whyt e-Fraser. It was 
the prospect of a new sensation — of ro- 
mance.” 

‘‘Romance?” Sir Jabez echoed. If the 
word had been uttered by anyone but Di- 
ana Massingberd, he would have echoed 
it contemptuously. 

“Yes, romance — romance,” she repeat- 
ed, emphasizing the word with her hand 
on the arm of her chair. “Something that 
their everyday life fails to give them.” 

Captain Bretherton joined in — cheerful 
and unimaginative. 

“And a jolly good thing too, I should 
say. You would n’t like to spend your 
everyday life sitting five a side in a rail- 
way carriage, would you ?” 

Diana’s shoulders rose imperceptibly at 
144 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

the smiling question. How wide, how 
very wide, the gulf was. 

‘‘No,” she said impatiently, “of course I 
should n’t — and no more would the five- 
guinea tourists. But I can quite imagine 
— can ’t you ? — that there are times when 
even a night in a stuffy railway carriage 
would come as a welcome change to some 
people — to people whose lives have gone 
by, day after day and month after month, 
in the same dull, mean, little round, with- 
out any hope of change or betterment or 
excitement — ” 

She broke off suddenly, warned by the 
quick throb in her own voice. Mrs. 
Whyte-Fraser’s face betrayed curiosity; 
Bretherton had taken the cigarette from 
his mouth and was holding it, meditative- 
ly, between his fingers. She looked round 
and laughed. 

“I ’m afraid you do n’t quite share my 
sympathy for the globe-trotting counter- 
145 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


jumper and his fellows. You may think 
me a truly extraordinary person, but I 
really like to think that when he does have 
a chance of getting away from his daily 
round and common task, he thoroughly 
enjoys himself, in his own vulgar fash- 
ion.’’ 

Captain Bretherton restored the cigar- 
ette to his lips and agreed cordially. 

''Of course. Why shouldn’t he enjoy 
himself, poor beggar. So long as he 
does n’t spoil the place for other people 
and get in the way — ” 

He halted to send a smoke ring to the 
ceiling and Diana completed the sen- 
tence. 

"Of the ornamental classes. I quite 
agree with you — the two do n’t mix. 
Their views of life are so hopelessly dis- 
similar.” 

She felt Bretherton’s eyes seek her face 
curiously as if something in her tone had 
146 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

struck him ; but at that moment Mrs, 
Whyte-Fraser created a diversion. 

^‘Is that really the time she exclaimed 
pointing to the clock on the mantelpiece. 
''I hadn’t the least idea it was so late. 
Tom will be wondering whether I am lost 
and sending out guides and St. Bernard 
dogs to look for me. Captain Bretherton, 
whether you like it or not, I am going to 
drag you back to the Victoria with me.” 

Captain Bretherton’s countenance be- 
lied his 'Dh — er — delighted,” but Mrs. 
Whyte-Fraser was true to her pledge. 

''To see Tom,” she explained. "I do n’t 
know what it is he wants to talk to 3^ou 
about, but he told me I was to be sure and 
capture you if I ran across you ; so I must 
absolutely insist on carrying you off with 
me now.” 

She nodded to Sir Jabez, extended a 
bent wrist to Mrs. Massingberd and the 
next instant had swept through the open 
window with her captive in her train. 

147 


CHAPTER VII 


A S Mrs. Whyte-Fraser's high soprano 
chatter died away down the path, 
Sir Jabez Gr inlay emerged from the shad- 
ow by the window with his customary 
scrapy cough. During the last few days 
his opportunities of intercourse with Mrs. 
Massingberd had been fewer than he could 
have desired; he had, therefore, no inten- 
tion of letting the present one slip. 

^‘Should you care for a little turn, Mrs. 
Massingberd?’’ he inquired, waving his 
hand suggestively in the direction of the 
landscape. ‘Tt ’s a lovely night.” 

‘‘No, thanks,” Diana answered absently 
— she was not thinking of him at that mo- 
ment. Then, feeling that she had been 
curt, she explained her refusal. 

148 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


''1 should have enjoyed a turn — ^but 
Mrs. Cantelupe particularly asked me to 
wait till she came back.” 

Sir Jabez hesitated. Diana had begun 
to turn over the leaves of an illustrated 
paper; he was not quite sure that she did 
not expect him to go. He made a step 
towards the window and then halted. 

^^Should you have any objection to my 
keeping you company till then ?” 

The question amused her. She pushed 
aside the paper and looked up at him. 

‘Df course not. Do you know, Sir Ja- 
bez, you interest me very much ?” 

‘T ’m very glad to ’ear it,” the baronet 
returned — ^not without a certain caution in 
face and voice. He had already noted in 
Diana a capacity for disconcerting re- 
marks and he was not at all sure that one 
of them was not now on the way. ‘'May I 
ask why?” 

“Yes, you may ask and I’ll tell you,” 
149 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Diana nodded, '‘though perhaps you won’t 
be flattered when you know the reason. 
You interest me because, whenever I talk 
to you, whenever I look at you, I can ’t 
help thinking of all the men and women 
whom you control and order — I mean the 
people who work for you.” 

"My employes?” Sir Jabez said with a 
tinge of surprise. 

"Yes, your employes,” Diana repeated. 
"That ’s what they are to you, is n’t it — 
just your employes?” 

It was in his mind to ask her what else 
they should be; but she did not give him 
time to put the question. Throwing back 
her head, she looked straight up into his 
face. 

"What a different person — what an ut- 
terly and entirely different person — ^you 
must seem to them from what you seem 
to me.” 

Sir Jabez saw no cause to dissent from 

150 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

the proposition. He smiled, a little grim- 
ly, as he supposed he did. 

“Of course you do,'' Diana said decid- 
edly. “To me you seem quite a nice and 
amiable individual ; but I do n't suppose 
there 's a single creature in your employ- 
ment — man or woman — who ever has a 
good word to say for you behind your 
back." 

Half prepared as he had been for a 
thrust. Sir Jabez's breath was taken away. 
Had the attack been delivered with venom, 
he would have been angry; but Diana's 
upturned face was frank, smiling and un- 
conscious of offence. 

“Upon my word — " he gasped out. 

Diana's smile grew even franker. 

“But it's true, isn't it?" she persisted, 
expostulating with his surprise. “You 're 
much too clever not to know that you 're 
unpopular with your workpeople." 

Sir Jabez gathered himself together. 

151 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 

‘‘Oh, of course I know it,'' he confessed 
with a rather sour smile, “but — I was 
wondering how you did." 

The question was astonished, not sus- 
picious ; still, Diana felt it behooved her to 
be careful. She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Feminine intuition, I suppose — I can 
feel it in my bones. You are a bit of a 
tyrant, now, aren't you? You like to 
think that people are afraid of you?" 

“Yes," the baronet admitted readily. 
“That 's to say I like people who work for 
me to be afraid of me. It keeps 'em up to 
the mark — and it 's the business of an em- 
ployer to keep 'is 'ands up to the mark." 

Diana glanced up sharply at his grave, 
matter-of-fact face. There was nothing 
unkindly in it, only much that was hard; 
and, as she looked, it began to dawn upon 
her dimly that Sir Jabez Grinlay was as 
much the product and result of system as 
she herself had been a month ago. He 

152 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


was the upper millstone — she the nether. 
That was all. Each ground its life out 
in obedience to laws which economists held 
sacred under the name of Supply and De- 
mand. 

‘Taney spending all one’s existence in 
keeping other people’s noses to the grind- 
stone,” she said lightly. “How I should 
hate it!” 

Sir Jabez surveyed her thoughtfully. 
He was conscious of a very strong desire 
to stand well with Mrs. Massingberd and 
he began to regret his frank admission 
that he knew of his own unpopularity. 
She was evidently under the impression 
that he was a harsh employer — an impres- 
sion that he honestly believed to be unjust. 
He endeavored to remove it. 

“You seem to have got an idea into 
your ’ead that I ’m a regular ogre to my 
employes ; but I assure you that ’s not the 
case. My ’ands are no worse off than 

153 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


they would be anywhere else. You can 
see that for yourself, if you care to have a 
look round one of our establishments next 
time you ’re in London. We are n’t 
afraid of inspection, government or other- 
wise. You ’ll find everything open and 
above-board — it does n’t do to play tricks 
with the Factory Acts nowadays. If 
you ’re interested in that sort of thing, 
come along and ’ave a look at us. It ’ll 
be a new experience for you, anyway — ” 
and he laughed and rubbed his hands to- 
gether — “for I do n’t suppose you ’ve ever 
set foot in one of my establishm^ents in 
your life. They ’re not quite your style, 
eh ?” and his eyes swept approvingly down 
the lines of the pink gown. 

“Now there you ’re wrong,” Diana said 
deliberately. “Not so very long ago I used 
to know one of your establishments very 
well indeed — the one in Clapham.” 

It was risky, she knew; but the situa- 
154 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


lion appealed to her sense of humor and 
she could not help it. 

“Indeed?’’ 

“Oh, yes. That was in my hard-up" 
days — ^you may be surprised to hear it, 
but I was hard-up once, and not so very 
long ago. Well, in those hard-up days, I 
used to — I can almost say I used to fre- 
quent your Clapham establishment. I re- 
member it quite well — especially the 
mantle department.” 

Again Sir Jabez surveyed the pink 
gown — and smiled at his own expense. 

“You ’ve given up dealing with us now, 

I suppose?” 

“I ’m afraid I have,” Diana admitted. 

“Do n’t blame you,” the baronet nodded. 
“I sha’n’t press you to continue your es- 
teemed patronage. I don’t mind confess- 
ing that Jabez Grinlay, Limited, could n’t 
turn you out as you ’re turned out to- 
night.” 


155 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Diana ran her hand caressingly over 
one of the soft skirt folds spread on the 
sofa beside her. 

''No, I do n't think you could," she said. 
"I hope you won't mind my saying so, but 
it always struck me that your latest Paris 
models at thirty-five and sixpence were 
painfully uncertain as to fit." 

The baronet prided himself on enjoying 
a joke at his own expense — and, what is 
more, prided himself with justice. His 
voice and his face grew as genial as they 
knew how to be. 

"They are — they are. I 've often re- 
marked it myself. But you can 't do bet- 
ter at the price. If you 're well enough 
off to avoid our thirty-five and sixpenny 
reach-me-downs — made in Shoreditch and 
labeled Paris — why, take my advice and 
avoid 'em. But we cater for the woman 
with the short purse." 

156 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

He was getting quite interested in the 
contest. So was Diana; she had never 
before credited her former tyrant with a 
sense of humor. 

‘‘See advertisement/’ she threw back at 
him. 

^‘Eh?” 

'^Grinlay’s is the place where a short 
purse goes as far as a long one anywhere 
else/’ she quoted; think that’s how it 
runs.” 

'‘Exactly. The lower middle-class 
woman — she ’s our best customer — and 
she ’s quite content with Paris models that 
don’t fit. So she gets ’em. That ’s the 
way to succeed, Mrs. Massingberd. Give 
the people what they want — good or bad, 
silk or shoddy — and give it ’em a half- 
penny cheaper than they can get it any 
where else, and you ’re a made man.” 

"No doubt,” Diana said drily, "but the 

157 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


question is — how do you manage to give 
it ’em a halfpenny cheaper than they get 
it anywhere else ?” 

The baronet jerked his head wisely. 

‘‘Ah, that ’s the secret. Organization 
— cut down working-expenses — ” 

“Working - expenses — that means 
wages, does n’t it?” 

Her tone was quite matter-of-fact, but 
all the same he looked up suspiciously. 

“Wages is one item, of course.” 

“And usually the first to be knocked 
down! Oh, I quite understand that the 
way to succeed is to get other people to 
work for you for as little as they can be 
got to take — and to pocket the proceeds 
of the work. Only I wonder if success is 
worth buying at that price I” 

Her face was flushed and her eyes 
bright. Sir Jabez smiled indulgently. 
Her little protest against the iron inevita- 
bility of the Laws of Supply and Demand 

158 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

was so puny. At the same time he did 
not find it unpleasing. What should she, 
in her pink Paris frock, understand of the 
real serious business of life, the buying of 
commodities — among commodities being 
included the flesh and spirit called Labor 
— in the cheapest market, and the selling 
them again in the dearest. Such, to him, 
was the meaning of Commerce and In- 
dustry; which again meant Progress and 
the Survival of the Fittest. Being him- 
self a survivor he approved of the system 
that had produced him — as was but nat- 
ural. 

‘‘1 can see you ’re a bit of a sentimental- 
ist, Mrs. Massingberd,” he said. ''Not 
that I object to that in a woman — on the 
contrary. But sentiment is one thing, 
business another. Business, my dear 
lady — it ’s not a bit of good trying to dis- 
guise the fact — is war — commercial war, 
carried on with brains and cheque-books 

159 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


instead of Maxims and lyddite shells/' 

^^And war in which no quarter is given 
to the weaker side," Diana flashed, re- 
membering the scant mercy she herself 
had received. 

Sir Jabez's head jerked assent. 

‘'Why should it be? In every 'ealthy 
state of society the weakest goes to the 
wall — because the wall is 'is proper place. 
If a man can 't keep his head above water 
he must go under ; if he does n't know how 
to rule he must serve ; if he can 't raise 
himself out of the ruck, in the ruck he 's 
got to stay. It 's no good whining about 
it — that 's life. And it 's just that which 
makes success all the more worth win- 
ning — the knowledge that you 've fought 
your way step by step, inch by inch, from 
the bottom of the ladder to the top." 

In spite of the missing aspirates there 
was a certain dignity about the words, 
which Diana felt. She knew that the man 
i6o 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

was thinking of himself and his own fierce 
and patient battle with life. She thought 
she understood, too, why it was that he 
and such as he, who have risen from the 
lowest rung, are often the least merciful 
to, the most impatient with, those who 
fail — since they know that those who fail 
have started out as well equipped as them- 
selves. 

^‘Step by step, inch by inch, from the 
bottom of the ladder to the top,” she re- 
peated. ''As you have done?” 

Sir Jabez laughed, well satisfied. 

"Yes, as I have done. Mrs. Massing- 
berd, I like to remember that I started life 
as a brat of a boy running errands.” 

"And I like you for remembering it,” 
Diana said quickly. She spoke the truth; 
it was the trait in him that pleased her 
most. Still better satisfied, the baronet 
drew his chair up closer to her own. 

"I should be a fool to try and forget it,” 
i6i 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


he said bluntly. ‘^Nobody else would. 
Besides, I proud of it — proud to think 
that the little chap who began with two 
bob a week had the grit and the push to 
get to the top. It shows what a man can 
do if he sets his mind on a thing and sticks 
to his business — ’’ 

‘'And does n’t indulge in sentiment — or 
spend his money in cheap trips to the Con- 
tinent?” Diana suggested. 

Sir Jabez shook his head with a smile 
that was at the same time indulgent and 
reproving. 

“Quite so; but I’m afraid, Mrs. Mas- 
singberd, it ’s the lazy, shiftless chap that 
’as your sympathy?” 

“Of course he has my sympathy,” Di- 
ana returned. “He wants it.” 

As she spoke the last words the door 
swung open and Mrs. Cantelupe bustled 
in. A fluent and copious letter-writer, her 
sympathy with Adelaide’s undeserved 
162 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


misfortune had run away with her pen, 
and, when at length she glanced from her 
completed epistle to the clock, she was hor- 
rified to find how long she had left her 
guests. Hastily committing her letter to 
the post-box, she sped back to Number 
Eleven and breathed a sigh of relief at 
finding Mrs. Massingberd still there. 

'"Has Eleanor gone? My dear Mrs. 
Massingberd, how disgraceful of me to 
leave you like this! Will you ever for- 
give me?’^ 

^Dh, Sir Jabez has been entertaining 
me,” Diana assured her. ^'We Ve been 
talking economics.” 

''Economics,” Mrs. Cantelupe repeated 
blankly. "Dear me — how very dull!” 

Sir Jabez took the hint. 

"P’raps then we ’d better defer the con- 
clusion of our little discussion till another 
time,” he said pompously. "I ’ll go and 
’ave a cigar in the garden. Good-night.” 
163 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Mrs. Cantelupe breathed a sigh of re- 
lief as he vanished. 'Dreadful person, 
is n’t he ? I was afraid he meant to stay.^’ 

She settled herself into an arm-chair, 
talking fussily and looking for an open- 
ing. She made a start at last with a di- 
rect question. 

"Is this your first visit to Pontresina, 
Mrs. Massingberd ?” 

"My first visit to Switzerland,” Diana 
corrected. "It is the fulfilment of a 
dream.” 

The opening was fairly promising. In 
accents of polite indifference Mrs. Cante- 
lupe imagined that Diana was fond of 
traveling. Diana agreed. She was very 
fond of traveling. All the same she had 
been very little abroad. 

Mrs. Cantelupe saw her chance and took 
it. 

"I dare say your husband did not share 
164 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


your pronounced taste for globe-trotting 
she suggested. 

Diana looked up — and then down. She 
began to understand; Mrs. Cantelupe was 
making inquiries. For an instant she felt 
slightly alarmed — then amused. After all 
it was a situation she had foreseen; and 
she answered without a tremor. 

''He strongly objected to it.’’ 

"Indeed !” Mrs. Cantelupe hesitated in 
the hope that the late Mr. Massingberd’s 
reasons for the unfortunate objection 
might be explained; but Diana was also 
awaiting developments. It was necessary 
to try another tack and Mrs. Cantelupe 
looked thoughtfully at the back of the 
sofa. 

"I wonder,” she murmured, "I won- 
der — Massingberd is not a very common 
name — ” 

Diana’s last doubts vanished. The at- 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


tack had become open and undisguised. 
What matter? She was quite ready for 
it. 

''It is rather unusual/’ she assented po- 
litely. 

"There was a Mr. Massingberd/’ her 
hostess went on reflectively, "a Mr. Mas- 
singberd that I met seven or eight years 
ago, at the Wetherby’s place in Lincoln- 
shire. Cyril Massingberd, I think the 
name was. Could it have been — ?” 

With a bland willingness to supply in- 
formation, Mrs. Massingberd shook her 
head. 

"My husband’s name was Josiah.” 

The name struck her as distinctly pleas- 
ing. 

"Josiah Massingberd,” Mrs. Cantelupe 
repeated regretfully. 

"Ah, then of course, it could not have 
been the same.” 

Diana agreed that it could not. A lit- 
i66 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

tie dashed, but feeling that something at 
least had been gained, Mrs. Cantelupe fol- 
lowed up the trail. 

‘'Still it is very possible that they may 
have been related?’’ 

Again Diana agreed; it was quite pos- 
sible. 

“Cyril Massingberd,” Mrs. Cantelupe 
went on, “was one of the Wiltshire Mas- 
singberds, I believe.” 

Diana felt that the conversation must 
be given a new turn. There would be 
distinct danger in adopting the Wiltshire 
Massingberds. She leaned forward con- 
fidentially and smiled. 

“You will think me a very extraordi- 
nary person, Mrs. Cantelupe, but I have n’t 
the least idea whether my husband was a 
Wiltshire Massingberd or not. I really 
know hardly anything about his relations.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe’s face showed that she 
did think her rather extraordinary, though 
167 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


her comment of 'Indeed was encourag- 
ingly polite. 

"You see/’ Diana explained earnestly, 
"our married life was so very brief.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe’s "Indeed!” was, this 
time, more sympathetic. Diana felt a 
wild desire to giggle after the fashion of 
Miss Jay. She had often imagined that 
she might be pressed for an account of 
herself, but she had never foreseen that she 
should heartily enjoy the ordeal. All she 
feared was her own inability to preserve 
a pathetic countenance. With a mighty 
effort she controlled her twitching mouth 
and sighed. 

"So very brief,” she repeated. "I 
sometimes feel as if it had never been — 
as if my life with Josiah had been nothing 
but a dream.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe’s voice was more sym- 
pathetic still; but she held on steadily to 
the point. 


i68 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

'‘May I ask — she began. 

Mrs. Massingberd’s handkerchief went 
to her face and covered it. 

"I had very much rather you didn’t/’ 
she said. "Please forgive me, but I had 
very much rather — ” 

Behind the pocket-handkerchief her 
voice shook weakly and then died away. 
Mrs. Cantelupe, in consternation, began 
to apologize. 

"My dear Mrs. Massingberd, I beg your 
pardon. I had no idea your bereavement 
was so recent. I shall never forgive my- 
self — I ought not to have — ” 

Mrs. Massingberd, her emotion mas- 
tered, wiped her eyes and apologized in 
her turn. 

"Oh, please, please, Mrs. Cantelupe. It 
is I who ought to beg your pardon for 
giving way to my feelings like this. It is 
very foolish of me.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe could not allow that it 
169 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


was foolish. Mrs. Massingberd insisted. 

'Dh, yes, it is. I ought to have more 
self-control. But you see my attachment 
to Josiah’s — to my husband’s — ^memory 
• — is — ” she hesitated for the word — ‘^pe- 
culiar.” 

“Peculiar?” Mrs. Cantelupe echoed in- 
terrogatively. Diana, frank and confiden- 
tial, shifted a little nearer to her. 

“You do not know how much I owe to 
Josiah, Mrs. Cantelupe. Every day I re- 
alize more and more that everything that 
makes my life worth living — comfort, 
amusement, friends, even, if I may use the 
word in connection with myself, social suc- 
cess — they are all due, simply and solely 
to my position as his widow. Can you 
wonder that I am grateful to him for what 
he has done for me ?” 

Mrs. Cantelupe was amiably depreca- 
tory. 

“My dear Mrs. Massingberd, surely you 
170 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

are a little too modest/’ she suggested. 
''As regards social success, your own very 
charming personality — if you will permit 
an old woman to say so — has had some- 
thing to do with that.” 

Mrs. Massingberd shook her head de- 
cidedly. 

"I am afraid,” she said, "that in society, 
as we understand it, personality does not 
count for much unless it is backed by 
money.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe was obliged to admit 
that that was true, unfortunately. 

"I have very good reason to know it,” 
Diana sighed, "because I was not always 
as well off as I am now. I don’t mind 
confessing to you that, after my father’s 
death and before I — ^became the wife of 
Josiah Massingberd, I was in very strait- 
ened circumstances. Very straitened in- 
deed.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe waxed even more sym- 
171 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

pathetic than she had done over Josiah 
Massingberd's lamented decease. 

‘Dear, dear, how very trying. But 
your marriage changed all that of 
course?’’ 

“Oh, quite changed it. Otherwise I 
should not be here.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe sighed contentedly. 
The interview was exceeding her wildest 
expectations. She was getting on — get- 
ting on very nicely indeed. Victor’s pros- 
pects were brightening to a rosy glow and 
the idea of a hurried flight from Pontre- 
sina was already dismissed from her mind. 

“It must have been a relief to you,” she 
purred. “Straitened circumstances are 
always so very unpleasant.” 

Mrs. Massingberd agreed entirely — 
they were most unpleasant. 

“I can quite understand,” her hostess 
purred on, “your very right and natural 
feeling of gratitude towards a husband 
172 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

who placed you beyond the need for petty 
economies/^ 

The phrase appealed to Diana. She 
looked down at her embroidered skirt, at 
the tip of her evening shoe; and laughed 
gently. 

''Yes, petty economies are a little out of 
my line at present. Of course — ’’ and 
again her voice dropped to the confidential 
tone — "I do n’t want you to imagine that 
I am a millionaire — or anything near it. 
On the contrary, I dare say that my in- 
come would seem comparatively small to 
you ; but — ” 

She paused for a second while Mrs. 
Cantelupe held her breath expectantly. 

"But, coming after the period of petty 
economies, I find that three hundred 
pounds a month is quite adequate for all 
my little wants.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe quivered exultantly, 
and, while a psalm of thanksgiving to 

173 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 


Mammon arose in her heart, her fingers 
pattered swiftly upon her skirt. She al- 
ways did her sums that way. 

'Three hundred pounds a month,’’ she 
breathed with exquisite satisfaction. 
"That is three thousand six hundred a 
year.” 

And another manual calculation result- 
ed in the happy certainty that the united 
incomes of the young couple would amount 
to over four thousand pounds per annum. 
The clouds had rolled away from the hor- 
izon and the peace and sunshine of her 
mind were outwardly reflected on her 
countenance; she longed only for the mo- 
ment when she might shower the blessings 
of an aunt upon Victor Bretherton and his 
most desirable bride. But suddenly her 
happy confidence received a check. With 
the face of a mask, Mrs. Massingberd 
nodded her head. 

"Three thousand six hundred a year,” 

174 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


she repeated. ‘'Yes, I suppose my income 
is at the rate of three thousand six hun- 
dred a year, for the present.’’ 

It was the last indifferently-spoken 
phrase that struck a chill into Mrs. Can- 
telupe’s soul — the dire and threatening 
little words “for the present.” True, they 
might mean nothing — might be simply a 
careless, involuntary phrase; but, on the 
other hand, they opened up a vista of dim 
but awful possibilities. The mere glimpse 
of these possibilities flustered her and de- 
prived her of her wonted finesse; and, al- 
most before she knew what she was doing, 
she heard her own voice asking — 

“Does that mean — ?” 

She pulled herself up uneasily; but Mrs. 
Massingberd, bland and encouraging as 
ever, bent towards her with an inviting 
smile. 

“You were going to say?” she sug- 
gested. 


175 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Mrs. Cantelupe, still uneasy, hesitated, 
glanced questioningly at her visitor’s face, 
and then decided to see the thing through. 

really do n’t know — perhaps you will 
consider it an impertinence on my part — ” 
Mrs. Massingberd waved away the idea. 
‘Well, I was going to ask — ^you have 
been so very frank about your affairs and 
we seem to have become quite old friends 
during our little chat — but please, please 
do not answer the question if you think it 
impertinent or inquisitive.” 

Mrs. Massingberd’s smile was still more 
inviting. She knew perfectly well that she 
should not think any such thing. Mrs. 
Cantelupe took her courage in both hands. 

‘Well, then, by your saying that your 
income was three thousand six hundred a 
year, for the present — did you mean that 
Mr. Massingberd — that your husband — 
imposed any — er — restrictions in his 
will?” 


176 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Diana’s eyebrows shot up. Then her 
lips began to quiver and lift. 

‘‘Restrictions?’’ she echoed shakily. 

“I mean,” Mrs. Cantelupe explained, 
“with regard to your marrying again ?” 

The idea evidently appealed to Mrs. 
Massingberd’s sense of humor. She 
leaned back and laughed with beaming 
eyes. 

“With regard to my marrying again? 
Oh, dear, no — no restrictions whatever.” 

The psalm of thanksgiving — drowned 
during the last few moments by a tremu- 
lous motif in a minor key — welled up 
again in Mrs. Cantelupe’s heart and a 
long-drawn sigh of relief escaped from 
her lips. She hastened to explain her 
obvious satisfaction. 

“I am delighted to hear it. I have al- 
ways thought that such restrictions — and 
I have known of several instances where 
they have been imposed by men who have 
177 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


left their property to their wives — are so 
exceedingly unfair, especially where a 
young woman is concerned/^ 

Mrs. Massingberd's point of view was 
exactly the same; she thought such re- 
strictions on a woman’s inclinations emi- 
nently unfair. 

‘‘But,” she added reflectively, “from 
what I know of Josiah, I am sure that he 
would never have dreamed of such a 
thing.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe beamed; laughing with 
happiness she leaned forward and patted 
the back of Mrs. Massingberd’s hand. 

“And you are sure you quite forgive my 
curiosity in asking?” 

“I understand that it was entirely 
prompted by your very kindly interest in 
myself.” 

“Exactly.” 

“But at the same time,” Mrs. Massing- 
berd went on, “I think it is exceedingly 
178 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


unlikely — more than unlikely — that I shall 
ever marry again/’ 

Mrs. Cantelupe shook her head to the 
accompaniment of incredulous laughter. 

‘Dh, you ’ll change your mind fast 
enough when the right man comes along. 
You’re not going?” as Diana rose from 
her seat. 

Indeed she was. She had some letters 
to write, she explained, and, besides, she 
had made quite a visitation already — her 
hostess must be longing to get rid of 
her. 

"Dn the contrary,” Mrs. Cantelupe de- 
clared, ^ht has been delightful of you to 
waste your time chatting with me. You 
are staying on here for the present, I sup- 
pose?” 

There was an imperceptible pause. Di- 
ana’s back was to the lamp and her hostess 
did not see her lip straighten and her eyes 
grow hard instead of smiling. Then, with 
179 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


a little shrug, she answered lightly 
enough — 

''Oh, yes, I am staying on for the pres- 
ent. These mountains fascinate me. I 
do n’t think I can tear myself away from 
them yet.” 

She held out her hand and Mrs. Can- 
telupe pressed it affectionately. 

"Then I hope we shall see more of you, 
Mrs. Massingberd — a very great deal 
more of you. By the way, have you made 
any plans — any arrangements for to-mor- 
row ?” 

Diana shook her head. No, she had 
made no plans as yet. 

"Because I was thinking of asking 
Eleanor Whyte-Fraser to join us in a lit- 
tle excursion to the Bernina Hospice — car- 
riages to the Hospice, and then those who 
like a scramble can go further. Victor 
will come to look after us, and, if you have 
i8o 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


nothing to do, I shall be so pleased if you 
will make one of our little party.” 

Again Diana hesitated — but only for an 
instant. Then she smiled consent. 

‘Tt is really very kind of you to ask me 
and I shall enjoy it immensely. I have n’t 
been as far as the Bernina Hospice yet.” 

‘‘Then that is settled,” Mrs. Cantelupe 
nodded happily, “I will make all the ar- 
rangements with Eleanor, and let you 
know the time we start in the morning.” 

As the door closed behind Mrs. Mas- 
singberd she sat down and sighed with ut- 
ter content. How fortunate that she had 
thought of inventing to-morrow’s excur- 
sion on the spur of the moment. Victor 
would be only too glad to come and Elea- 
nor, always good-natured and interested 
in matrimonial arrangements, could be 
counted on to fall in with her plans. The 
party should not consist of more than four, 
i8i 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


and, the Bernina Hospice once reached, it 
should split into equal parts. She and 
Eleanor would rest at the hotel or in its 
neighborhood ; the others, as she had said 
to Mrs. Massingberd, could ''go further.’’ 
It was her business, henceforth to see that 
the path of true love was made smooth to 
her nephew’s feet. She looked out at the 
moon whitening the mountains and felt 
her mind attuned to the peaceful beauty 
of the night. 

'Three thousand six hundred a year,” 
she said softly. 


CHAPTER VIII 

TAIANA MASSINGBERD, mean- 
while, was extricating herself from 
the folds of her pink Paris gown, and, as 
she did so, she laughed. She was very 
glad she had had that amusing little con- 
versation with Mrs. Cantelupe. It had 
been delightful in itself — an enjoyable epi- 
sode; but it had been something else be- 
sides — something of a revelation. But for 
that conversation she would have held to 
her determination of leaving Pontresina 
within forty-eight hours ; now she had no 
intention of doing anything so foolish and 
self-sacrificing. The idea of taking to 
flight for fear of damaging the heart of 
Victor Bretherton who — as she imagined 

183 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

— had set his aunt on to pump his inamo- 
rata before venturing to compromise him- 
self by a too marked attention! Hence- 
forth she need have no compunction on the 
subject of her dealings with Mrs. Can- 
telupe's nephew; his admiration, interest- 
ed though it was, was quite a pleasant 
item in her month’s holiday, and she would 
make the most of it, as she did of the other 
good things that came in her way. 

With regard to Victor’s imaginary 
share in Mrs. Cantelupe’s investigations 
she was of course wrong ; but, with regard 
to his attitude towards herself, she did not 
do him so very much injustice. He had 
begun to admire her, true ; but he had also 
begun to ask himself inwardly whether he 
was in a position to admire her — ^whether, 
in short, Mrs. Massingberd was a woman 
who would require from her husband a 
literal fulfilment of that portion of the 
marriage vow which concerns itself with 
184 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

the endowment of worldly goods. If that 
was the case, of course — well, there you 
were ! It would be most unfortunate, rot- 
ten hard luck in fact, but perhaps he had 
better shift his quarters, without delay. 
If the result of Diana’s cross-examina- 
tion had been less satisfactory, Mrs. Can- 
telupe would have found him quite ready, 
if not extremely willing, to deliver him- 
self from temptation. 

As it was, he was relieved, almost in- 
tensely relieved, when that entirely satis- 
factory result was made known to him by 
his aunt, as it speedily was, in smiling and 
diplomatic fashion. Not that he had def- 
initely made up his mind to ask Diana to 
become his wife! it was, as yet, early in 
the day to decide on such an important 
step. But he had got quite far enough to 
realize that it was by no means improbable 
that he should take that step in the end; 
and, meanwhile, and now that his aunt’s 
i8S 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

discourse had cleared the financial atmos- 
phere, he intended to see a great deal more 
of Diana — with a view to future develop- 
ments. With regard to her feelings to- 
ward himself, he was fairly happy; Diana 
had received a good deal of attention 
during the last feW days but, so far as he 
could see, she preferred his company to 
anyone else’s. Altogether he had a com- 
fortable sensation that things were going 
on as they should; and he slept very well 
that night. 

In the morning they started for the Ber- 
nina Hospice — Victor cheerful and at ease 
with the world, Mrs. Cantelupe radiant, 
Eleanor Whyte-Fraser bored but amiable, 
and Diana cool and amused. The expe- 
dition was a complete success and a source 
of enjoyment to everyone but Mrs. Whyte- 
Fraser, who became openly depressed 
while she and Mrs. Cantelupe sat at the 
wayside awaiting the return of the wan- 
i86 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

derers. She pronounced the view heaven- 
ly, but said it made her eyes ache. 

They had coffee at the mountain hotel 
and then drove back to Pontresina — Diana 
flushed and tired, less amused than she 
had been in the morning and, she hardly 
knew, why, very much happier. .There 
had been a good deal of scorn in her soul 
when she had started; something had 
withered it during the day. Perhaps the 
pale majesty and the pure clean air of the 
Alps; perhaps the cheerful, good-natured 
companionship of Bretherton himself. Af- 
ter all, and there was no denying it, he 
had his good points; there were the mak- 
ings of a man in him somewhere; she be- 
lieved if he had been differently bred he 
could have been something better than a 
fortune-hunter. What was really lacking 
in him was a sense of proportion; to the 
small things of life he attached an inor- 
dinate value — the value set upon them by 

187 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

the narrow little world in which he lived 
and moved and had his being. If he could 
have got outside that narrow world and 
seen things as they really are — ^yes, she 
felt sure he would have had the makings 
of a man. 

She was very happy that night. She 
explained to Sir Jabez at dinner that the 
air of the Alps always went to her head. 
After dinner she drifted into the music- 
room where Jimmy Tollemache was en- 
tertaining his friends with comic songs — 
the friends joining in the chorus with a 
frank enjoyment of noise for the sake of 
noise, which Diana was just in the mood 
to appreciate. Finally someone shoved 
Jimmy off the music-stool and began a 
waltz; the other men pushed the chairs 
to the wall and Bretherton was first at 
Diana’s side with an unceremonious 
^^Come along, Mrs. Massingberd” . . . 

When she went up to bed her thoughts 

i88 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


of him were kinder than they had been 
the night before. He was after her im- 
aginary fortune, of course ; but, if he was 
treating her unfairly in that respect, she, 
after all, was scarcely acting towards him 
with level and beautiful straightforward- 
ness! She did not admit that he or any- 
one else had the right to demand straight- 
forwardness from her; while she had 
money to pay her way, she could do what 
she liked. Still . . . And, fortune- 

hunter as he was, it was possible, just 
possible, that a man might at the same 
time be in love with a woman and her 
money ! 

That morning she had told Herr Ritter 
that she intended to stay on at the Hotel 
Engadine for another fortnight, and she 
did not regret her determination. But, as 
regarded Captain Bretherton, she decided 
to. be careful. Again she told herself that 
she did not want to hurt him. 

189 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


As yet she had no fear at all of hurting 
herself. 


Diana sat in her room with a stump of 
pencil in her hand, and before her a scrib- 
bled half-sheet of paper and some hun- 
dred-franc notes, held down by a small 
heap of gold and silver coins. The scrib- 
blings on the paper were calculations ; she 
had been seventeen days at the Hotel En- 
gadine and her day of reckoning had 
come. Her face was brown and healthy 
but, under its tan, a little pale. 

She added up the figures and then slow- 
ly counted through the sum of her worldly 
wealth, compared the two totals thought- 
fully — and sighed. There was only one 
conclusion to be arrived at; she must ask 
for her bill that morning, leave that after- 
noon. Herr Ritter’s account settled and 
the servants tipped, she would have 
190 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


enough to take her back to England — 
barely. 

She put the pencil between her lips and 
bit it hard while her eyes looked straight 
out of the window. She thought of Miss 
Smithers ; she could almost hear her voice 
as she sat combing her hair and asking, 
^^and when it is all spent?” 

It was all spent — all. When she ar- 
rived in London there would remain to her 
the memory of her month and a few smart 
frocks. The latter represented a certain 
amount of capital, of course; they would 
fetch something at a second-hand dealer’s. 
The thought of parting with them sent a 
swift pang through her, they were more 
than the outward and visible signs of her 
power and glory: they were the actual 
means by which she had attained to it. 
When they were gone, only her memories 
would be left. 


191 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

She had told Miss Smithers that these 
would be a consolation; that, even when 
all else was lost, it would be something for 
her to feel and know that, once and for a 
short few weeks, she had ordered her life 
according to her own desires. When she 
said that she had believed it; now she 
knew that sweetness that is only a memory 
tastes very bitter in the mouth. 

Until this morning she had put the fu- 
ture away from her with dogged deter- 
mination. Once or twice during the last 
day or two the thought had come, like a 
knife-stab: ‘‘this is almost the end,’’ but 
she had thrust it behind her instantly. 
Now it was the end, and the future had 
to be faced. 

Voices and laughter came up through 
her open window and she moved restlessly 
and frowned with a sudden flash of an- 
tagonism and the unreasonable anger that 
misery feels against happiness. To-mor- 
192 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

row her place would know her no more; 
to-morrow London and all that London 
meant would have swallowed her up ; she 
would have gone under and the waves 
would have swept over her head; but the 
life that she had been living for these last 
ecstatic weeks would go on merrily as 
usual and no one would miss or regret her. 

''At any rate/’ she said, under her 
breath, "not for very long.” 

She leaned her chin upon her hand and 
her lips closed in a straight line. She was 
thinking of the only person who would be 
likely to miss her. No doubt he would be 
uncomfortable — perhaps even a little un- 
happy — for a day or two; her absence, 
after their constant companionship, would 
leave a certain blank in his existence, and 
he was not resourceful about filling up the 
blanks in his existence. Still there was al- 
ways Samaden and the golf-links; he had 
spent most of his time there before she 

193 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

came. Or he could move on somewhere 
else where there were more golf-links — or 
shooting. 

Suddenly she rose and began to walk 
up and down the room, angry with her 
own injustice. He did care, she had seen 
it in his eyes, no further back than yes- 
terday. 

Supposing she had let him speak — 
what would have happened? He had 
been on the very point of doing so, had 
reddened and begun to stammer out an 
unintelligible phrase when she, fright- 
ened, had suddenly broken in with a laugh- 
ingly sarcastic remark that had froze the 
words on his lips. He had relapsed into 
a rather sulky silence, only answering in 
monosyllables as she hurried him back to 
the hotel. And that was the second time 
within the last three days that, to her cer- 
tain knowledge, he had screwed his cour- 
age up to declaration pitch; the other 
194 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


evening, on the verandah, her instinct had 
suddenly warned her what was coming. 
She had half risen from her chair, meditat- 
ing instant flight ; and then, in the nick of 
time. Sir Jabez Grinlay had loomed slowly 
round the corner, and been tremendously 
astonished by the warmth with which she 
had invited him to join her and her com- 
panion. 

But supposing he had managed to get 
the words out; supposing in due form, 
he had asked her to become his wife — 
what would she have done? There 
would have been only two courses open to 
her. A simple, blank refusal — or an ex- 
planation, a confession. She felt instinc- 
tively that, even if she had started with the 
refusal, it would have come to the con- 
fession in the end. 

And how would he have received it? 
Would there have been the faintest 
chance — ? 


195 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘‘No/’ she said slowly and aloud, “there 
would n’t. Not the faintest.” 

For she had come to know him very well 
during the last weeks. She had laughed 
with him, talked with him, walked with 
him and been glad to have him with her ; 
but hardly ever, except now and again for 
a few minutes at a time, had she been able 
to forget the existence of the invisible gulf 
that divided them. He lived in an atmos- 
phere of social prejudice which was so en- 
tirely a part of his life that he was hardly 
aware of its existence. He breathed it as 
he breathed the air. Lines that to her 
were negligible, if not imaginary, to him 
were hard and fast barriers, impossible to 
over-top. She believed that in the bottom 
of his lazy heart he loved her more than 
her money; but she also knew him for a 
creature molded by routine and hedged 
about by the traditions of his class and 
caste. With a man so molded, so trained 
1,96 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


and so indulgent to himself, only a passion 
almost savage in its intensity would avail 
to break the pleasant fetters in which his 
life was passed. And she did not flatter 
herself that she had inspired such a pas- 
sion in him ; he was not the man in whom 
such a passion could be inspired. If he 
had been he would not have been Victor 
Bretherton, the easy-going, the shiftless, 
the slothful — and the lovable. 

She had reached the point at which she 
acknowledged that she cared — very much. 
He was ridiculous, selfish, idle, narrow, 
in some ways even, contemptible; but she 
cared for him. It was no use trying to 
disguise the fact. She had played with 
edged tools and one of her memories 
would be a scar. 

With her hands touching each other 
behind her back, she stood staring down at 
the carpet, motionless, while the breeze 
from the open window fluttered the little 
197 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


heap of hundred-franc notes. She roused 
herself at last and glanced at her watch. 
It was nearly twelve o’clock. The train 
from Samaden started somewhere about 
two, so that she had not over much 
time. She gathered up the money, put it 
away, and ran downstairs to consult the 
time-tables. Victor was out of the way, 
she knew; from her window she had seen 
him stroll off down the hill. She hoped 
he would hear nothing of her departure 
until it was an accomplished fact. 

As she reached the foot of the stairs 
Mrs. Whyte-Fraser came sailing into the 
hall through the front door. 

''Oh, Mrs. Massingberd, there you are ! 
I came over on purpose to find you. 
We ’re having a ridiculous donkey-party 
this afternoon. Will you come? I don’t 
know where we are to go, but Tom has 
commandeered all the donkeys in the 
place. I ’ve just met Captain Bretherton 
198 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


and asked him, and I ’m counting on you.” 

Diana explained that it was impossible ; 
she had been called back to England sud- 
denly, was obliged to leave by the after- 
noon train. Mrs. Whyte-Fraser was loud 
in lamentations and regrets; most disap- 
pointed — it was so unfortunate. She 
hoped it was not bad news that was taking 
Mrs. Massingberd away? Merely a mat- 
ter of business? How annoying. Then, 
with a hope — meaningly expressed — that 
they should meet again very soon, she 
swept away to beat up more recruits for 
the 'Ridiculous donkey-party.” 

Diana picked up a time-table in the hall 
and ran her fingers down one of the col- 
umns ; and with a queer, almost sick, thrill 
she realized how soon she would be in 
London again — ^by four o’clock to-morrow 
afternoon. Mechanically she began jot- 
ting down some of the figures upon a piece 
of paper — the halts at Zurich, Basle and 
199 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Laon; then, catching sight of a waiter fidg- 
eting about with the tables in the veran- 
dah, she called to him, told him to ask for 
her bill at once and to order a carriage in 
time to catch the quarter-past two at Sam- 
aden. 


200 


CHAPTER IX 


A S she tossed the time-table down and 
turned to go upstairs, her name, 
twice repeated, fell breathlessly upon her 
ears and Mrs. Cantelupe rustled in 
through the verandah. She had just met 
Mrs. Whyte-Fraser in the garden and 
from her had learned of Mrs. Massing- 
berd’s unexpected departure. Hence her 
haste and excitement. 

''My dear Mrs. Massingberd,” she 
panted, "I have just met Eleanor Whyte- 
Fraser and she horrified me by telling me 
you are leaving us to-day. Surely it 
is n’t true ?” 

"I am afraid it is,” Diana nodded. "I 
— well, as a matter of fact — I have stayed 
on longer than I intended already and I 


201 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


find I must get back to London at once.” 

Mrs. Whyte-Fraser’s distress was as 
nothing to Mrs. Cantelupe’s. She was 
more than distressed; she was alarmed. 
Her mind had already leaped to the con- 
clusion that in this sudden departure there 
was more than met the eye, and Diana’s 
pale face and nervous, restrained manner 
confirmed her suspicions. She had not 
the faintest intention of allowing Mrs. 
Massingberd to go before she had found 
out what the matter was; and, before Di- 
ana realized what was happening, she 
found that with Mrs. Cantelupe’s arm 
slipped firmly through her own, she was 
being drawn through the door of Number 
Eleven. She would gladly have avoided 
the interview had it been possible; irrita- 
ble and out of spirits, she felt no desire for 
a final fencing-match with Victor’s aunt. 

''Dear, dear,” Mrs. Cantelupe was la- 
menting. "It really is most unfortunate. 


202 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


I was quite in hopes that you intended to 
stay on all the summer/’ 

Diana turned brusquely to the window 
and looked out. She knew that her face 
was not quite under control, and she want- 
ed it out of range of Mrs. Cantelupe’s in- 
quiring, inquisitive gaze. 

‘‘I only wish I could,” she said. ‘'I 
shall never forget the happy time I Ve had 
here — never as long as I live. It will be 
something to remember at any rate, even 
if I never see mountains like that again — 
and sky and clean air and white snow. 
Yes, it will be something to remember.” 

The words were hardly out of her 
mouth when she was annoyed with her- 
self for having uttered them before Mrs. 
Cantelupe. She would not have uttered 
them if she had been entirely mistress of 
herself. She felt instinctively that her 
companion would draw her own conclu- 
sions from them; and she did. Mrs. 

203 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Cantelupe jerked her head sagely in the 
direction of Diana's back hair, with the 
air of one who is beginning to understand, 
and then, smoothing her face, she went on 
cheerfully. 

'‘But there 's no reason why you 
should n't see Pontresina again, is there ? 
If you like the place so much, why not 
come again next year?" 

Diana laughed gently. 

"Why not?" she said, "why not, in- 
deed?" 

"But meanwhile," Mrs. Cantelupe per- 
sisted. "I shall miss you dreadfully — I 
shall indeed." 

"It 's very good of you to say so." 
Diana answered mechanically. 

"And," Mrs. Cantelupe went on, the 
while she shifted her position so as to get 
a view of something besides back hair, 
"and I am sure that Victor will miss you 
more than I shall. I know how thor- 


204 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


oughly he has enjoyed all your walks and 
little expeditions together/’ 

But Diana was prepared and did not 
flinch. Her voice was a little restrained 
but her face was quite composed. 

‘'I have enjoyed them, too,” she said. 
‘'It has been most kind of him to show 
me my way about.” 

“Most kind of him, my dear Mrs. Mas- 
singberd?” Mrs. Cantelupe smiled amia- 
bly and waved her hand with a gesture 
intended to express that the kindness had 
been all on the other side. “Now I hope 
— I really do hope — that this unexpected 
departure of yours is not going to put an 
end to our very pleasant friendship.” 

Diana laughed and then checked her- 
self; she was conscious that, if she was 
not careful, she might laugh too much. 

“Oh — why should it?” 

“Exactly,” Mrs. Cantelupe agreed, 
“why should it? I shall be at home — 
205 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

in Mount Street — by the middle of Octo- 
ber at the latest. Wednesday is my day, 
but I hope you won ’t stand on ceremony 
with me; I shall always be at home to you 
whenever you have an afternoon to spare. 
But what are your plans? Shall you be 
in London for the winter?’’ 

Again the wild desire to laugh took 
Diana by the throat. She gulped it down 
convulsively and, red in the face from the 
struggle, stammered out something about 
the impossibility of making any arrange- 
ments for the future until after her ar- 
rival in England. 

^'Well, as soon as you have fixed your 
plans,” Mrs. Cantelupe insisted, ‘^you 
must write and let me know. You will? 
Now that ’s a promise and I shall look 
forward to a letter from you very soon 
— and I am sure Victor will be most anx- 
ious to know you have n’t forgotten your 
Pontresina friends.” 

206 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Diana was beginning to feel that she 
could not stand much more; Mrs. Can- 
telupe’s searching, inquisitive eyes were 
getting on her nerves, and the booming 
of the hall clock opened a welcome way 
of escape. 

^'That ’s twelve,’’ she said, holding out 
her hand. ‘1 must be off. I haven’t 
half done my packing yet, and the carriage 
is to be round for me before half-past 
one.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe’s face betrayed her con- 
sternation. Within an hour and a half 
Mrs. Massingberd would be whirled away 
— she had only an hour and a half in 
which to patch up the misunderstanding 
which she felt sure was the cause of 
Diana’s hasty departure. Diana’s face, 
voice and manner all assured her that 
something was wrong; she must have 
taken offence at something that Victor 
had done or left undone. Knowing her 
207 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


nephew as she did, Mrs. Cantelupe opined 
that it was at something he had left un- 
done. Her alarm was intense. To allow 
Mrs. Massingberd to go with the breach 
unhealed might mean the definite ruin of 
Victor’s hopes and her own; and the time 
was so short. She clung to Diana’s hand. 

‘'So soon!” she exclaimed. “But, my 
dear . . . Has Victor any idea that 

you are leaving by that train?” 

Diana drew her hand away quickly. 

“I really don’t know,” she said. 

“But have you told him?” Mrs. Cante- 
lupe persisted. 

“No,” Diana admitted, as carelessly as 
she could. “I think I said to him the other 
day that I should be leaving Pontresina 
very shortly; but it was only this morning 
that I found I should be obliged to start 
to-day.”‘ 

“And you have not seen him this morn- 
ing — since you made up your mind ?” 

208 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


“No, I have not seen him/’ 

Mrs. Cantelupe could have wrung her 
hands. Evidently the breach was seri- 
ous; Mrs. Massingberd must be really 
and bitterly offended when she decided to 
steal away without a word of good-by to 
her admirer. There was only one grain 
of hope. Diana’s attempt at secrecy be- 
trayed a distrust of herself and of her 
own powers of resistance ; if the pair 
could only come face to face again all 
might yet be well. 

“Then, of course, he can ’t know,” she 
exclaimed. “I wonder where he is; he 
will be so dreadfully distressed if — ” 

She broke off and made for the bell. 
Diana tried to interpose. 

“I don’t think it will be any use inquir- 
ing — I am quite certain he is out. If he 
does n’t come back before I start, you must 
say good-by to him for me.” 

But Mrs. Cantelupe, at her wits’ end, 
209 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


was not to be appeased. By a bolt from 
the blue her dearest hopes were threat- 
ened with utter ruin and she could have 
wept with rage. 

''But my dear Mrs. Massingberd, I 
really don’t know what he will say. He 
will never forgive me — never — if I let you 
go without . . 

As she grew more flustered, Diana 
grew calmer. 

"I ’m afraid,” she said lightly, "that I 
can hardly expect the Zurich train to wait 
until Captain Bretherton comes back from 
his walk. If I don’t see him, mind you 
give him a pretty message from me! 
And now I really must fly and look after 
my packing.” 

"But — ” Mrs. Cantelupe protested help- 
lessly as her finger again pressed the bell- 
knob ; then, breaking off, she turned 
hastily as a step sounded upon the veran- 
dah close to the open window. She had 


210 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


hoped it might be her nephew’s; it was 
Sir Jabez Grinlay’s. 

^Dh, Sir Jabez,” she exclaimed, ‘^you 
have n’t seen my nephew anywhere about, 
have you?” 

''I ’aven’t,” the baronet said curtly; he 
disliked Mrs. Cantelupe. 'Want him 
particularly?” 

Mrs. Cantelupe replied that she did, 
and explained why. Perhaps she hoped 
that Sir Jabez would assist her by depart- 
ing in search of her missing nephew. But 
Sir Jabez did nothing of the sort; instead, 
he tossed away his cigar, stepped over the 
window-sill and walked up to Mrs. Mas- 
singberd. 

Mrs. Cantelupe delivered a third and 
more violent assault upon the electric- 
bell; and then, her impatience getting the 
better of her, she swept from the room 
like a whirlwind, calling loudly for a 
waiter. 


2II 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘‘So you ’re leaving us, Mrs. Massing- 
berd,” Sir Jabez said. “What ’s taking 
you away so suddenly ?” 

Diana smiled faintly and held out her 
hand. 

“Holidays can ’t last for ever, can 
they?” 

“No, of course not — of course not.” 
He scraped his throat loudly and, drawing 
himself up, stared straight over her head, 
and then added, with sudden decision: 

“Business is business.” 

The remark admitted of no contradic- 
tion, and with a good-by nod, Diana 
turned to go; but, with a sudden alert- 
ness for which she would hardly have 
given him credit, he reached the door be- 
fore her. 

“One moment, Mrs. Massingberd. I 
want you to answer a question before you 
go.” 

His face was perfectly stiff and expres- 


212 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


sionless. She glanced up at him a little 
impatiently; she was longing to be alone. 

''Yes/' she said, "what is it?" 

"How would you like me for a hus- 
band?" 

She stood stock-still and looked at him. 
Then a quotation from "Alice" rushed 
into her mind : "He said it very loud and 
clear." It exactly described the manner 
of Sir Jabez's wooing. Still, she did not 
feel the least inclined to laugh. In her 
eyes he was ungainly but not undignified. 
His face was as emotionless as wood; but 
all the same she knew that this was love, 
as felt and understood by Sir Jabez Grin- 
lay. 

Complete surprise deprived her of 
words; she had never guessed that the 
baronet's attentions meant this ! Here 
was a turning of the tables with a ven- 
geance — the head of Grinlay’s Empo- 
riums suing for the love of the assistant 
213 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


he had sacked with ignominy. Grinlay 
gave her a moment and then spoke. 

‘‘A straightforward answer, please — no 
beating about the bush. I 'm a business 
man — ’’ He stopped suddenly with a dry, 
little choke. 

'Then I ’m afraid it must be 'no,’ ” she 
said. 

His expression was as wooden as ever, 
but his voice was not quite so aggressively 
loud as he asked, "You wouldn’t like a 
little time to think it over ?” 

"I ’m afraid not,” she repeated hastily. 
"I ’m — sorry.” 

She made a half-step towards the door, 
hoping he would move and let her pass; 
but he still stood barring the way. 

"Yet there ’s a good many women 
would consider it a good offer. Forty 
thousand a year, to say nothing of the 
title. It ’s brand new of course, but — ” 

"You wouldn’t like me to accept you 
214 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

for what you Ve got?” she said quickly, 
anxious only to get away. 

He looked down at her — one compre- 
hensive glance that swept her from her 
hair to her shoes — and then replied de- 
liberately. 'm not so sure that I 
should n’t. If you ’d take me now for 
what I Ve got, I believe I ’d chance your 
caring — later on.” 

She looked at him in amazement, won- 
dering if this was the iron-hard man she 
had hated at Clapham. How much more 
human and tolerable he was in love than 
in business. She answered him gently: 

‘'Some day you ’ll be glad that I did n’t 
let you chance it, Sir Jabez.” 

She held out her hand and he took it, 
but made no attempt to press it. 

“You ’re the only woman I ever met 
who has no respect for money.” 

She drew her hand away with an at- 
tempt at a laugh. 


215 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

^^That only shows how little you know 
of me. I 'm not at all disinterested, really 
— I Ve known the time when I felt as if I 
could sell my soul for a five-pound note.” 

''Oh! You have, have you?” he said 
sharply. "Then your soul ’s gone up in 
price since then — you won’t take forty 
thousand a year for it now. What ’s sent 
up the value? Another bidder in the 
market, eh?” 

The suddenness of the attack brought 
the blood to her cheeks with a rush. She 
opened her lips angrily, but his harsh, 
insistent, bullying voice drowned her re- 
monstrance. 

"There is, and you can ’t deny it. 
You ’re going to throw yourself away on 
that fool of a guardsman — a clever 
woman like you ! I thought you ’d more 
brains. A ' young idiot — a puppy who 
has spent his life playing at soldiers and 
216 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

has n’t even the sense to stick to the little 
money he ’s got — ” 

'‘Or the heartlessness to grind a fortune 
out of underpaid work-girls,” Diana 
flashed furiously. 

‘'One for me, eh?” Sir Jabez said grim- 
ly. “So you ’re going to have him, are 
you?” 

“That is a grossly impertinent ques- 
tion,” she returned, white with anger. 
“You have no right to assume anything of 
the sort.” 

“I ’ve a perfect right to assume what 
you are not able to deny.” 

Between pain and anger she was losing 
her head, and, instead of holding her 
tongue, she retorted passionately: “You 
are perfectly wrong. Captain Bretherton 
is nothing to me — nothing!” 

Sir Jabez Gr inlay forgot his manners. 
He had no intrinsic respect for women, 
217 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


as women; and,* when the exigencies of 
the case demanded it, he knew how to 
handle them roughly. He did so now. 

'That ’s something very like a lie, my 
lady! You’ll have him if he’ll have 
you.” 

There was a savage and brutal truth 
about the words that sent them home; 
and Diana stood aghast and quivering. 
Only flight was left to her, and she 
stretched out her hand to open the door, 
while her antagonist, grimly satisfied with 
his victory, stood aside to let her pass. 
Then, as she turned the handle, a cheer- 
ful, drawling voice from the verandah 
fell upon her ears — Bretherton’s voice. 

"Oh, there you are, Mrs. Massingberd. 
I ’ve been looking for you all over the 
place. Should you like a turn before 
luncheon ?” 

"No, thanks,” she said curtly and with- 
out turning her head, conscious of the 
218 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


sneering scrutiny of Sir Jabez’ gray 
eyes. have n’t time now — I have other 
things to do.” 

And the door closed behind her while 
Bretherton, in ignorance of the storm he 
had interrupted, came down into the room 
and requested Sir Jabez for a match. 
The latter tossed him his box in silence; 
and Bretherton never guessed how nearly 
it was aimed at his head. The maker of 
Grinlay’s Emporiums did not take defeat 
well ; like Miss Pringle, victory was more 
in his line. And, in this case, the bitter- 
ness of failure was enhanced by an hon- 
est and utter contempt for the man who 
had, as he believed, carried away the prize 
for which he had competed in vain. If 
only the creature had been a man — so ran 
his thoughts — he could have forgiven 
Diana ; but to be ousted by a lounger who 
had idled his way into her heart on the 
strength of a fair amount of good looks 
219 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


and a plentiful lack of brains! Sir Jabez 
felt all the bitter indignation of the just 
man struggling with undeserved misfor- 
tune. He caught sight of a red-backed, 
continental Bradshaw — Mrs. Cantelupe’s 
property — lying on the table and strode 
across the room to fetch it. 

‘Thinking of moving on?^^ Bretherton 
asked from the sofa. 

“Yes.’’ 

“Oh— when?” 

“To-morrow,” Sir Jabez replied curtly, 
as he ran his finger down the Basle- 
Folkestone column. It would have been 
to-day — but Diana had to be given a 
start.” 

“Where to?” Bretherton inquired. 

“London.” 

“London ?” Victor was almost sym- 
pathetic. “What ’s takin’ you to London 
in August?” 

“Business.” 


220 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘What a beastly nuisance!’’ 

“I dare say you think so,” Sir Jabez 
returned still more curtly. There was 
something so gratingly unpleasant about 
his tones, that Bretherton, lounging on 
the sofa, turned a lazy eye to look at him. 

“And don’t you?” he inquired, between 
two puffs of his cigarette. 

Sir Jabez did not. His tone was still 
gratingly unpleasant, and it began to 
dawn upon Victor that he was out of tem- 
per and trying to be disagreeable. The 
suspicion did not excite him much, and he 
merely yawned and remarked : 

“Tastes differ.” 

“They do,” Sir Jabez agreed unamia- 
bly. “Your sort of life — all play and no 
work, get yourself up in the morning and 
play golf and lounge — would kill me in 
three months.” 

“Thanks,” Bretherton returned, reflect- 
ing that it was a pity Sir Jabez did not 


221 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


see his way to try the particular form of 
suicide described. 

“And my sort of life/’ the baronet went 
on, still more unamiably, “hard work and 
stick at it from morning till night, would 
knock you out in three days.” 

Bretherton reddened in spite of him- 
self. There was a sledge-hammer rude- 
ness and directness about the attack which 
it was impossible to ignore; the only way 
to parry it was by an affectation of studied 
indifference. 

“Thanks awfully,” he drawled. 

“But there,” Sir Jabez snorted as he 
flung the red-covered Bradshaw noisily 
on the table, “you needn’t mind that. 
It ’s your sort — the idle, shiftless sort — 
that gets the best out of life, at any rate, 
as far as the women are concerned.” 

“That ’s a comfort,” the other replied, 
still nettled but outwardly unruffled. Sir 


222 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Jabez, fairly started, hardly noticed the 
interruption. 

^^It ’s just that — your shiftlessness and 
’elplessness — that appeals to ’em, I sup- 
pose. They know you could n’t get on 
without ’em and the rest of us can — thank 
heaven for that! Whether they fail us 
or not, we ’ve always got our work — thank 
heaven for that, too — and the place in 
the world that we ’ve made for ourselves. 
Which is more than you’ve got or ever 
will!” 

His harsh voice ceased abruptly and, 
without another word, he wheeled stiffly 
round, stepped over the window-sill and 
was gone, leaving Captain Bretherton 
sitting on the sofa in a state of wonder- 
ing uncertainty as to whether it was the 
heat or the hotel whiskey which had 
played havoc with Sir Jabez’s liver and 
temper and manners. 

223 


CHAPTER X 


C APTAIN BRETHERTON was still 
lounging on the sofa when, five 
minutes later, Mrs. Cantelupe came pant- 
ing upon the verandah. When she saw 
her nephew through the window she stop- 
ped short, feeling as if she could have 
hit him with her parasol. While she, 
perspiring with heat and anxiety, had 
been hunting for him in vain round the 
hotel grounds, he had been lying back on 
the sofa-cushions sending smoke-rings up 
to the ceiling. She was very angry and 
she looked it. 

''Oh, there you are,” she exclaimed, 
shutting her parasol with an aggressive 
snap. 

"Yes, here I am,” her nephew returned 
pleasantly. "Did you want me?” 

224 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


should think I didr 

There was such a world of meaning in 
her voice that Br ether ton was moved to 
inquire if anything was up. 

‘'Anything up his aunt echoed scorn- 
fully. “There is — and it ’s this : Mrs. 
Massingberd is leaving for England by 
the next train.’’ 

Captain Bretherton stared at her — and 
then straightened his back and set his feet 
on the floor. 

“God bless my soul, no !” 

Mrs. Cantelupe laughed bitterly. 

“She is packing her trunks at this mo- 
ment and starts for the station at half- 
past one.” 

“At half-past one,” Victor repeated, 
with a glance at the clock. “Why on 
earth did n’t she say something about it to 
me ? I say. Aunt Emma, what ’s taking 
her away so suddenly?” 

“She says business,” Mrs. Cantelupe 
225 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


returned with a shrug of her shoulders. 
‘^But I can very well guess what the busi- 
ness is.'’ 

The scornful significance in her tones 
irritated Bretherton. 

‘'What on earth do you mean?" he 
asked impatiently. 

Mrs. Cantelupe leaned forward and 
paused impressively. 

“You have said nothing to her?" she 
demanded, in the tone of one who brings 
a damning accusation. 

“Said nothing?" her nephew repeated, 
puzzled for a moment, and then, as the 
light of her meaning dawned on him, 
“Oh — er — no! That is to say — nothing 
definite." 

Mrs. Cantelupe threw out her hands 
despairingly. 

“Then you ought to have done so. It is 
disgraceful of you, Victor — simply dis- 
graceful. 


226 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘Disgraceful?’’ her nephew repeated. 
“Oh, come now, Aunt Emma — ” 

But Mrs. Cantelupe was not going to 
be silenced, neither was she in the mood 
to give ear to remonstrance or excuse. 

“I repeat, it is simply disgraceful of you 
to let your opportunities slip by in this 
idiotic manner; I can call it nothing else 
than idiotic. I have no patience with you. 
And it has been most unfair to her as 
well.” 

• She pulled up suddenly for breath — 
she was still exhausted by her hurried 
and heated search — and the culprit found 
an opportunity to get in a word in his own 
defence. 

“My dear Aunt Emma, as far as that 
goes, though I haven’t said anything 
definite to Di — to Mrs. Massingberd — I ’m 
sure I ’ve shown her quite plainly what 
my feelings are towards her.” 

“My dear Victor,” his aunt retorted, 
227 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘'that is not enough; you ought to have 
spoken before now/' 

“But after all/' Bretherton objected, 
“we haven't known each other so very 
long — less than three weeks." 

“That does n’t matter," Mrs. Cantelupe 
snapped back. “The point is that I am 
perfectly certain she is offended by your 
silence — as she has every right to be. 
Her manner was very constrained when I 
mentioned you just now; she evidently 
did not wish to see you again before she 
went. She feels, of course, that she has 
given you plenty of chances and is natu- 
rally piqued that you have never attempted 
to take advantage of them." 

This was blatantly unjust; his attempts 
had been failures, but they had been made. 
He began to protest. 

“Never attempted! Why — " 

He got no further. Mrs. Cantelupe 
stormed him down excitedly. 

228 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


'Don’t argue, Victor! Listen to me. 
It is because she is piqued at your silence 
that she has suddenly made up her mind 
to leave — and not only to leave, but to 
slip off to England without so much as 
saying 'good-by’ to you, or letting you 
know anything about it until she had 
actually gone. That was evidently her 
intention, and it was a good thing for you 
— ^nothing less than a mercy — that I hap- 
pened to find it out in time. You have 
behaved most foolishly, Victor — most 
foolishly. You to ought have had the 
sense to realize that a woman in Mrs. 
Massingberd’s position — a woman who, 
to put it vulgarly, can pick and choose 
— does not expect to be kept dangling on 
in uncertainty while a man is making up 
his mind whether or not he intends to 
propose to her!” 

This was a new aspect of the case, and 
Victor was staggered and a little re- 
229 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


morseful. Women, he reflected ruefully, 
were so difficult to understand; perhaps, 
when Diana had seemed as if she wanted 
to put him off yesterday, she had really 
wanted him to go on. 

''Upon my soul,’’ he said, "I ’m awfully 
sorry if I ’ve offended her. It ’s — it ’s the 
last thing I wanted to do; you know that. 
Aunt Emma. I wouldn’t have hurt her 
feelings for the world.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe sniffed contemptuously. 

"You have not only hurt her feelings, 
my dear boy, but you have gone very near 
to losing her altogether. I conclude” — 
this with intense sarcasm — "that you do 
mean to propose to her — some time or an- 
other?” 

"Of course I do,” Bretherton returned. 
He flung away the cigarette that had been 
burning itself away between his fingers, 
got up and stood looking down upon his 
aunt. "I — well, I don’t mind saying it 
230 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


to you, Aunt Emma — I Ve got to care for 
her awfully. She — she ’s a downright 
good sort.’’ 

“Then, why on earth haven’t you come 
to the point before now?” Mrs. Cantelupe 
retorted. “It ’s no good saying these 
things to me ; you should say them to her. 
And you ’ve had plenty of opportunity ; 
I ’ve seen to that.” 

An equable temper was one of Captain 
Bretherton’s virtues — ^but it had been a 
good deal tried that morning, and his 
aunt’s jibes were beginning to wear away 
his patience. He answered rather sulkily 
that it was a deuced awkward thing to do. 

Mrs. Cantelupe’s temper — naturally far 
less equable than her nephew’s — had van- 
ished long ago, and her answer was a 
positive snap. 

“Nonsense ! I ’ve no patience with such 
lunacy, when you ’ve been together every 
day for more than a fortnight.” 

231 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


know that/’ Bretherton protested, 
goaded into self-defence; ‘1 know that, 
but—” 

^^But what!” 

''Well, I Ve been on the point of get- 
ting it out half-a-dozen times; but then 
either I Ve funked it or else something 
has turned up to put me off my stroke. 
Once — ^just when I ’d got the words on 
the very tip of my tongue — that old ass 
of a Grinlay came plunging in and it was 
all up with me.” 

If he had expected sympathy for the 
difficulties of his wooing, he must have 
been disappointed; Mrs. Cantelupe’s 
"Really, Victor !” expressed not sympathy 
but concentrated scorn. 

"Oh, it ’s all very well for you to be so 
down on me,” her nephew objected in in- 
jured accents, "but, after all, I ’m not at 
all sure in my own mind that she cares a 
brass button about me.” 


232 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Mrs. Cantelupe had no misgivings 
whatever upon the subject and her answer 
was emphatic and decided. 

''Of course she does.’’ 

"I ’ve thought so sometimes,” Victor 
agreed doubtfully, "but other times, she ’s 
different — particularly the last day or two. 
Seems to shut up and draw into herself — 
says such queer things — ” 

"What sort of things?” his aunt de^ 
manded. 

"Oh, contemptuous and sarcastic and — 
I can ’t exactly explain, but once or twice 
it has seemed to me as if she was trying to 
put me off before I had gone too far.” 

"Rubbish !” Mrs. Cantelupe pro- 
nounced decisively. "All your imagina- 
tion.” 

"Oh, it ’s all right for you to say rub- 
bish,” her nephew grunted. "But I ’m 
not at all certain that she ’ll have me when 
I do ask her — and that ’s the truth. And, 

233 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


after all, why should she ? I'm not much 
of a catch as far as money goes — and even 
if I were, I 'm not half clever enough for 
her." 

Mrs. Cantelupe had never committed 
the mistake of placing too high a value 
upon the purely intellectual qualities. She 
merely said : 

^'Nonsense, Victor." 

^‘Nonsense or not," Victor retorted, ‘‘I 
can tell you that when a fellow feels that 
as soon as he opens his mouth he may be 
told he isn't wanted and sent about his 
business, it — well, it gives him a sinking 
sensation in the inside." 

Mrs. Cantelupe strode across the room 
and rang the bell. 

‘‘Does it?" she said unsympathetically. 
“That must be very uncomfortable. 
Well, as far as you are concerned, you 'll 
have to get over that sinking sensation in 
the inside — now!" 


234 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


^What on earth do you mean?’^ her 
nephew demanded, in sudden alarm. 

A waiter’s entry checked the answer. 
With one eye upon Victor Mrs. Cantelupe 
gave him his orders. 

''Will you send up at once to Mrs. Mas- 
singberd — she is packing in her bedroom 
— and tell her I shall be extremely 
obliged, Mrs. Cantelupe will be extremely 
obliged, if she would spare me a few min- 
utes down here. Say I am very sorry to 
disturb her, as I know she is busy, but it 
is a matter of importance and I shall not 
detain her long.’’ 

Captain Bretherton stood aghast, and 
then boiled. No man likes receiving 
downright and uncompromising orders 
from a woman, even if that woman be a 
determined aunt. As the waiter left the 
room he boiled over. 

"I say. Aunt Emma,” he began angrily, 
"this is a bit too much!” 

235 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


But Mrs. Cantelupe was in no mood to 
make allowances for the easily-ruffled dig- 
nity of the male. She wheeled round on 
him excitedly. 

''Now Victor, no shuffling! I Ve given 
you your chance — your last chance — and 
I ’m now going out for a walk. When I 
come back I shall expect to hear that you 
have persuaded Mrs. Massingberd to stop 
on at Pontresina.’’ 

"Oh, hang it all,’’ Bretherton splut- 
tered, "you need n’t have rushed me into 
it like this.” He was excusably furious. 
Save by flight — a means too abject to be 
thought of — there was no escape from an 
immediate proposal. He desired to pro- 
pose to Diana, certainly, but it is one thing 
to propose at your own time and place, and 
quite another to do so at the time and place 
selected by your aunt. But Mrs. Cante- 
lupe swept his remonstrances scornfully 
aside. 




236 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

“If I had n’t rushed you into it, my dear 
boy, you ’d have let her go without a word 
— I know your way of putting things off 
until it is too late.” 

“But I should n’t have let her go alto- 
gether,” her nephew protested sulkily. 
“After all, I could have written to her — 
and, now I come to think of it, I believe I 
could have managed it ever so much bet- 
ter in a letter.” 

Mrs. Cantelupe looked withering com 
tempt. 

“My dear Victor, if you are laboring 
under the delusion that letter-writing is 
one of your strong points, all I can say is 
that you are most wofully mistaken. Be- 
sides, no woman respects a man who 
has n’t pluck enough to tell her that he 
loves her to her face. Now make up your 
mind and take your courage in both hands 
— it won’t be half so difficult as you think 
and you ’ll muddle through somehow — 

237 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


and, when once the ordeal is over, you will 
be extremely obliged to me for having 
forced it on you. I shall allow you half 
an hour — and at the end of that time I 
shall appear on the scene, armed with suit- 
able congratulations.’’ 

And snatching up her parasol she 
whirled off through the window leaving 
her nephew gazing after her in disconso- 
late indignation, and wishing from the bot- 
tom of his heart that he shared his aunt’s 
comfortable certainty that the process of 
‘'muddling through” would be crowned 
with success and satisfaction. The sink- 
ing sensation to which he had alluded was 
making itself unpleasantly manifest; and 
he wondered, nervously, if there were any 
chance that Mrs. Massingberd, busy with 
her preparations for departure, might de- 
cline to come down. 

Then the door opened and Diana walked 
in. 


238 


CHAPTER XI 


S HE stopped short when she saw him 
and looked round sharply for Mrs. 
Cantelupe. This — the meeting and part- 
ing with Victor Bretherton — was exactly 
what she had hoped to avoid, exactly what 
she felt she could not bear. 

'Tsn’t Mrs. Cantelupe here?’’ she 
asked. ‘T was told she wanted to see me.” 

Captain Bretherton cursed Mrs. Cante- 
lupe in his heart and began to talk non- 
sense. 

‘‘Yes, she did. That ’s to say she sent a 
message to you — I mean, she has just 
gone out for a walk.” 

His stammering speech, his flushed 
face, gave away the game. Diana under- 
stood and turned swiftly towards the door ; 
239 - 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Bretherton’s terror was as nothing to 
her’s. She had so hoped to get away 
without seeing him — and now he was bar- 
ring her way exactly as Sir Jabez had done 
a little while before. 

''Don’t go for a moment, Mrs. Massing- 
berd. I Ve something to say to you. I — 
I — ” He had almost screwed himself up 
to the point and then his courage failed 
him and he swerved. "I hear you ’re 
leaving us — going away.” 

Diana’s throat was very dry but her 
voice was very even. 

"Yes, I ’m going away. I find I must 
go back to London at once.” 

Captain Bretherton shifted from one 
foot to the other; the perspiration was 
standing on his forehead and he knew he 
was a miserable ass. 

"I ’m awfully sorry — awfully.” 

"It ’s very kind of you to say so.” 

How stony she was. Surely a woman 
240 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

who cared for a man would give him a 
lift at such a moment — ^just a bit of en- 
couragement to help him out. All she did 
was to look expectantly over his shoulder 
at the door as if waiting for him to move 
away — and if he could n’t think of some- 
thing to say he should have to move and 
let her pass. He could n’t stand there 
much longer, tongue-tied and staring at 
her. 

Something came at last — with a rush. 

''We ’ve had a ripping time together, 
haven’t we?” 

He hoped she would respond — just a 
smile of thanks, a suggestion that she re- 
gretted that the "ripping time” was over, 
would have been a help. But no, her eyes 
were still on the door and her voice was 
still even and unshaken. 

"Oh, I ’ve enjoyed it immensely.” 

How was a man to propose on the top 
of an emotionless remark like that? He 
241 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


felt indignant with her and plunged on 
wretchedly. 

‘The walks round here are splendid, 
aren’t they?” 

This was too futile — he felt it himself. 
So did Diana. It was more than futile; 
it was painful and must be stopped. She 
held out her hand decidedly. 

‘T ’m afraid I really must go now, Cap- 
tain Bretherton. I have to catch the 
quarter-past two at Samaden and the car- 
riage will be round for me directly. Good- 

by.” 

“Good-by,” he heard himself saying as 
he shook her hand ; “I hope you ’ll have an 
awfully comfortable journey and — ” 

Then he pulled himself up suddenly and 
the thing was done. 

“Mrs. Massingberd — Diana — I — oh, 

hang it all, what does a fellow say when 
he wants the nicest woman in the world 
to marry him? Diana, do you think you 
242 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


could manage to put up with me for a hus- 
band ? I know I ’m an awful fool at put- 
ting things into words, but what I mean 
is, I Ve never met a woman like you and — 
I love you — ’pon my soul, I love you, Di- 
ana/' 

As he began to speak she had drawn 
her hand from his and shrunk back a pace 
or two ; but when he came to the last words 
she lifted her eyes and looked straight up 
into his. 

''Do you?" she said under her breath. 
He took it for a sign that he had muddled 
through and all was well. 

"Diana," he cried with an eager step 
towards her, "does that mean — " 

"No," she said sharply, "it doesn't, it 
doesn't. Wait!" 

"Wait?" he repeated uneasily. "Diana, 
for heaven's sake, don't keep me in sus- 
pense I Just tell me one way or the other 
—let me know my fate in one word." 

243 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

But Diana stood silent. There was a 
choice before her. She could give him a 
plain ‘^no’’ — as she had every right to do — 
and leave him to nurse his wounded affec- 
tion, sore but unenlightened. Or she 
could tell him the truth — and let him 
choose. Her pride told her that to do so 
would be useless — that it would mean hu- 
miliation and virtual rejection. But 
against her pride there fought a desperate 
little hope that she had not yet turned her 
back on happiness for ever — and the echo 
of his stammering ’pon my soul, I love 
you.’’ 

“Diana,” he urged. 

She drew a long breath and decided. 

“I can ’t do that,” she said. “I can ’t 
tell you in one word — yes or no — ” 

“You can ’t — why not ?” 

“Because — ” She hesitated and then 
looked at him steadily. What was to fol- 
244 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


low was to be a plain statement of fact; 
there should be no appeal to sentiment. 

''Because — Captain Bretherton, you 
have just made me a proposal of mar- 
riage, for which I thank you. But, until 
you have heard what I have to say to you, 
I shall consider that proposal of marriage 
unspoken. 

"Unspoken,” Bretherton stammered, 
"but it is n’t unspoken. What do you 
mean — I don’t understand.” 

"Of course you don’t understand yet: 
but I am going to make the position clear 
to you — ” 

"The position — what position?” he 
asked — noting, with uneasiness, that her 
face was pale and her eyes bright and rest- 
less. She pointed to a chair a little way 
from the sofa on which she had seated her- 
self. 

"Will you be good enough to sit down 

245 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

there and listen to me for a few minutes?” 

Puzzled and uncertain, Bretherton mut- 
tered something and sat down. Diana 
leaned back against the sofa-cushions and 
folded her hands in her lap: the plain 
statement of fact was coming. 

'Do you realize, Captain Bretherton, 
that we have only been acquaintances for 
a little over a fortnight — to be exact, for 
seventeen days ?” 

Bretherton took courage. 

"I feel,” he said emphatically, "as if 
we had been friends for seventeen years.” 

Diana did not respond to the interrup- 
tion; she took up her sentence exactly 
where she had left it off. 

"And you really know practically noth- 
ing about me — nothing, I mean, of my life 
and history before I met you here less 
than three weeks ago.” 

Bretherton’s eyes opened widely and he 
shifted in his chair. To say the least of 
246 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

it, the words had given him a shock, they 
hinted at possibilities — unpleasant possi- 
bilities. They were so unpleasant that he 
felt ashamed of himself for connecting 
them, for an instant, with Diana. 

‘‘Er — no,’’ he said awkwardly, ‘‘of 
course not. Except what you have told 
me yourself.” 

Diana’s head went back against the 
cushions and she raised her hands and 
gently pressed the finger-tips together. 

''Let me see,” she said thoughtfully, 
"and what have I told you exactly?” 

Captain Bretherton drew his hand 
across his forehead. The sense of be- 
wilderment was deepening. 

"Er — why,” he stammered, "you ’ve 
told me — well, for one thing, you ’ve told 
me you ’re the widow of — er — Mr. Josiah 
Massingberd.” 

"And that,” said Diana, "was a lie to 
begin with.” 


247 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

There were five seconds of silence. 
This time Captain Bretherton did not 
fidget in his chair. On the contrary he sat 
quite still, asking himself if he had heard 
aright. He came to the conclusion that 
he had. 

'Diana, he said, "Diana, what do you 
mean 

"I mean. Captain Bretherton, that that 
estimable old gentleman, the late lamented 
Mr. Massingberd, is in the same position 
as Mrs. Harris — there never was no sich 
person. And, that being the case, he 
couldn’t very well have left a widow, 
could he?” 

There was a red spot on each of her 
cheeks, now, and she had locked her fin- 
gers so that they should not shake; but 
her voice was composed and even flippant. 
She was keeping to her determination that 
there should be no pleading, no appeal for 
248 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


sympathy. That would be to humiliate 
herself, indeed. 

As yet there was no resentment in Bre- 
therton’s eyes — nothing but blank, incred- 
ulous amazement. 

‘What — on earth — are — you — saying?’^ 
he asked slowly with a pause between each 
word. 

“That he couldn’t very well have left 
a widow,” Diana repeated. “Nor, which 
is more to the point, perhaps, could he 
have bequeathed to his imaginary relict 
the very comfortable income of three thou- 
sand six hundred pounds a year.” 

“His imaginary relict,” the young man 
echoed stupefied — and then a sudden light 
burst upon him. Diana, the mischievous, 
was taking a rise out of him — enjoying 
his stupefaction. 

“I say — ^you’re joking!” he exclaimed 
hopefully. 


249 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

But Diana’s even voice cut through his 
hopes like a knife. 

assure you I ’m not. I ’m in black 
and deadly earnest.” 

Again he stared at her, open-mouthed; 
and then — feeling it impossible not to be- 
lieve her — he sprang to his feet. 

‘^Then, if you are n’t Diana Massing- 
berd, who the deuce are you?” he cried; 
and, for the first time, she heard the note 
of anger and suspicion in his voice. 

‘Dh, I ’m Diana Massingberd right 
enough,’' she said quietly. ‘'That ’s my 
name — my legal and lawful name — and 
the only thing about me that is n’t a snare 
and a delusion.” 

Again Bretherton’s hand went to his 
forehead. The only thing he clearly un- 
derstood was that somehow or other Di- 
ana was making a fool of him ; and he was 
duly resentful. 


250 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘^Am I mad or are you?’’ he demanded. 
Diana shrugged her shoulders. 

‘‘As far as I know, I ’m perfectly sane,” 
she retorted. “All I ’m trying to do is to 
make you understand that instead of being 
a rich widow I ’m a poor spinster — a des- 
perately poor spinster.” 

“But — then — how — ?” Bretherton 
stammered. 

“I ’ve been taking you in, of course — 
you and all your friends — sailing under 
false colors. No doubt it was a disgrace- 
ful thing to do; but before you get really 
angry with me, as perhaps you are justi- 
fied in doing, I ’ve a right to ask you to 
hear my story.” 

She was sitting bolt upright now and 
unlocked her fingers to point him back to 
the chair he had left. He took the hint 
in silence. She began rapidly and look- 
ing away from him. 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘‘My father was a country doctor — an 
under-paid country doctor. When he died 
there was nothing — nothing at all — and 
I was thrown on my own resources for a 
living. I earned it how and where I 
could — and a little over a month ago I 
was a shop-assistant in London.^’ 

It was out now — the worst was out — 
and Bretherton was gazing at her with 
round, incredulous eyes. 

“A shop-assistant — you 
She nodded with a touch of defiance and 
went on: 

“My last situation was at Dobson’s, a 
big suburban draper’s. I was in the ho- 
siery department — ” 

“The — hosiery department,” he re- 
peated weakly. He felt as if his brain 
were reeling. The radiant Diana — the 
magnificent Mrs. Massingberd — ^handing 
stockings over a suburban counter? Im- 
252 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


possible! Yet Diana’s voice was going 
on, steadily, convincingly. 

‘‘ — In the hosiery department, earning 
five shillings a week and having a hell of 
a time. I sha’n’t apologize for the un- 
parliamentary expression — ^it’s justified. 
I ’d had six years of that sort of slavery — 
been at it ever since my father died. Then, 
one night, I got a solicitor’s letter telling 
me that a distant cousin of mine was dead 
and that I had come in for a legacy of 
three hundred pounds.” 

‘^Three hundred pounds!” Bretherton 
echoed her again in parrot-fashion ; he had 
no words of his own at command. 

''Yes,” Diana nodded. "Of course, if 
I ’d been a sensible woman, I should have 
hoarded up my windfall — invested it in 
something safe and got two and a half or 
three per cent, on it. But I was n’t sen- 
sible and I was sick of the starve and the 

253 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


stint and the grind of it all — sick to death 
of the whole gray life ; and so I settled to 
have a royal time while the money lasted. 
All the things that I’d wanted — wanted 
horribly and couldn’t have, just because 
I was poor — pretty dresses, travel, amuse- 
ment, politenes^s and — ^yes, I don’t mind 
confessing it, admiration — they should be 
mine while the cash held out.” 

She paused imperceptibly and turned 
her head to glance at him. His eyes were 
fixed on the carpet, his face downcast, sul- 
len and perplexed. It was just what she 
had expected — but it hurt. She jerked 
up her head and a harder note came into 
her voice. 

knew that I could buy them, every 
one — and I was n’t wrong. I ’ve had my 
royal time. I ’ve been petted and ad- 
mired and made much of and — made love 
to. Oh, only for the sake of my imagi- 
nary fortune, of course, but still I have en- 
254 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

joyed the experience, enjoyed it down to 
the ground . . . And now it ’s over 

and the money spent — and I ’m going 
back.’" 

Bretherton raised his head quickly. 
Up to that moment he had only thought 
of what this meant to himself; for the 
first time he began to think of what it 
meant to her. 

‘‘Going back?’’ he repeated questioning- 

ly- 

“To work — to the old life and the old 
grind. I ’ve just enough left out of my 
three hundred pounds to settle my hotel 
bill, tip the servants and pay for my ticket 
home. I expect I shall land in London 
practically ‘broke to the wide.’ ” 

“Good God!” Bretherton said. 

She laughed a little defiantly. Of all 
things she least desired pity from him. 

“Oh, my dresses will fetch something, 
of course. I shall have no further use 
255 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

for smart frocks in that state of life to 
which it will please Providence to call me, 
and they ought to bring in enough for me 
to live on until I get something to do” 

She heard her voice getting dry and 
jerky, and she broke off. Victor had 
risen and stood with his eyes upon the 
ground, his fingers twisting uncomfort- 
ably at his moustache. She waited, but 
he made no sign ; her nerves were on edge 
and the silence grew too heavy for her to 
bear. It made her restless and she faced 
round on him at last, speaking quickly and 
digging her nails into the sofa-cushion. 

'"Well, now you know the whole story — 
and, having heard it, you are no doubt 
feeling very much obliged to me because 
I refused to allow you to commit yourself 
a few minutes ago?’' 

Bretherton flushed angrily. He was 
aggrieved and justly aggrieved; yet here 
was Diana, instead of expressing regret 
256 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

for her duplicity, manoeuvering him into 
a situation both unpleasant and ridiculous. 

‘‘You Ve put me into a deuced awkward 
position,'’ he said sullenly. “Deuced awk- 
ward!" 

She quivered with anger and hurt pride 
that would have found an outlet in tears 
had she not fiercely choked them down. 
He had told her that he loved her — that 
he loved her upon his soul — and yet, when 
he heard that she was penniless, that she 
was going back to a life she had told him 
was hell, his sense of pity for her was 
swallowed up by his own hurt vanity and 
resentment at being placed in a “deuced 
awkward position." And for this she had 
humiliated herself; she shrugged her 
shoulders as much in self-contempt as in 
contempt for him. 

“I assure you," she threw at him, “it 's 
just as awkward for me." 

“You had no right — " Bretherton began 

257 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

doggedly; but Diana, quicker of speech 
than he was, cut him short in an instant. 

‘'No right to enjoy myself as I pleased 
and to play the fool with my own money ! 
Are you so very scrupulous as to how you 
spend yours 

The shot told and the captain’s anger 
showed it. 

“That ’s not the point. You must see 
that it was most unfair to me — to all of 
us — to deceive us as to — as to your real 
position.” 

“In other words, as to the extent of my 
fortune,” Diana mocked. Her fighting- 
blood was up, now, and being once en- 
tered in a quarrel, not even the hope of 
heaven could have stayed her hand. 

“Then I am to understand that it was 
entirely to my imaginary three thousand 
six hundred a year that I owed all the at- 
tention and courtesy I have received from 
you during my stay here. I guessed as 
258 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


much the day Mrs. Cantelupe tried to 
pump me about my resources.’’ 

Bretherton writhed indignantly. She 
was adding insult to injury; having stolen 
his affections, she jeered at them as worth- 
less. Her position was utterly unjustifi- 
able and he longed for her fluent powers 
of speech so that he might convince her of 
the fact. 

‘It ’s all very well for you to talk like 
that,” he blustered, “but surely you must 
realize that you have treated me shame- 
fully — abominably — ” 

“In what way?” Diana inquired curtly. 

“By deceiving me — ^by allowing me to 
suppose — ” he floundered, and Diana, 
with deadly readiness, filled in the blank 
for him: 

“That I was in a position to support a 
husband.” 

The neat, appropriate cruelty of the 
thrust took away his breath and left him 

259 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

speechless. It was poisoned with truth — 
though not with truth undiluted. No, he 
was sure it was not the whole truth. She 
was bitterly unjust to him — and in his re- 
sentment his manners followed his tem- 
per. 

"'Oh, hang it all, I know I ’m no match 
for you in an argument. But, however 
much you may sneer and jeer at me, you 
must know perfectly well that your con- 
duct has been that of an adventuress.’’ 

Diana was at white heat now. She had 
nothing to hope for — the breach between 
them was deadly, broad and final. She 
was reckless of everything but the mo- 
mentary satisfaction of fighting a good 
fight; and, inwardly seething but out- 
wardly calm, she rose to her feet and 
walked up to him deliberately. 

"An adventuress, I think you said? 
Does n’t that remind you a little of the 
celebrated interchange of compliments be- 
260 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


tween the pot and the kettle? For, if I ’m 
an adventuress, what are you but an ad- 
venturer, Captain Victor Bretherton? 
You were ready and willing and anxious 
to run after me, so long as you believed 
I had money, and in the hope that I should 
allow you to live upon that money — ’’ 

'Diana — Mrs. — er. Miss Massingberd 
Bretherton stammered, his very fury con- 
fusing him. But it needed something more 
than an angry interjection to stay the flood 
of Miss Massingberd’s wrath and con- 
tempt. 

"It ’s true and you know it,’’ she flared 
tempestuously, "and is n’t that the con- 
duct of an adventurer? You’re far too 
extravagant to live on your own income — 
you ’re far too idle to work to increase 
it — so you look round for a wife who is 
rich enough to support you in idleness and 
extravagance. You cannot dig — ^but to 
sponge on a wife you are not ashamed. 

261 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


And what, may I ask, have you to offer 
the fortunate woman in return for the use 
of her superfluous income? Proprietary 
rights in a poor, backboneless creature 
who never did a useful thing in his life 
Never in all his days had such a whirl 
of insults been flung at Bretherton’s head. 
He stood aghast and then, as she paused 
for breath, broke in furiously — 

“Miss Massingberd, this is insulting — 
intolerable 

“Captain Bretherton, it may be insult- 
ing and intolerable, but it is also the truth. 
Common, vulgar people like me — people 
who work for their living instead of living 
on other people’s work — ^have an awkward 
knack of calling a spade a spade at times. 
And remember,” she finished, dropping 
suddenly and drily back to a conversa- 
tional tone, “it was n’t I who started call- 
ing names.” 

The torrent of her anger had exhausted 
262 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


itself and she stood silent. Bretherton, 
sullen and smarting, did the same and for 
a moment nothing sounded in the room 
but the equable ticking of a clock. Diana 
was the first to speak — swiftly, coolly, in- 
differently. 

'Well, good-by. Captain Bretherton. 
As I told you just now, my money is spent 
and my time here is up. I must hurry off 
to my room and finish packing all my 
earthly possessions in a couple of trunks 
and a hand-bag. Make my final adieux to 
Mrs. Cantelupe and tell her whatever you 
think fit.’’ 

Her hand was on the door when Vic- 
tor’s voice stopped her. 

"Diana — Miss Massingberd.” 

She turned quickly, with a sudden un- 
reasonable thrill of hope for she knew not 
what. His voice was sullen still but not 
bitter — almost apologetic. And — he did 
not want her to go. 

263 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘^Yes!’’ 

‘'Before you go,” he stumbled, “I want 
you to see — I want to tell you that you 
have been very unjust to me.” 

“Unjust— how?” 

“You cannot believe all that you have 
said about me. It was not only money — 
surely you see that. And surely you must 
know that I would give a great deal — a 
very great deal — if circumstances did not 
keep us apart.” 

She knew of what he was thinking — of 
the invisible barrier that, to her, did not 
exist, but to him was a ring-fence barred 
and bound with iron. Her eyebrows went 
up scornfully; there were so many things 
a man really could not do without placing 
an arbitrary limit to his powers. 

“If,” he stumbled on, reddening in the 
effort to explain the situation without 
wounding her feelings, “if it were not a — 
264 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


a moral impossibility for a man in my po- 
sition — 

He stopped, afraid to say more; and 
again Diana filled in the blank. The gulf 
of which she had always been conscious 
was open wide between them now — and 
she hit at him across it, pitilessly. 

‘Tf it were not a moral impossibility for 
a man in your position to marry a shop- 
girl ! That ’s what you mean, is n’t it ? A 
shop-girl — that is to say, a woman who has 
so far degraded herself as to work for her 
own living. Believe me, I quite realize 
the impossibility of the thing from your 
point of view; only, for the life of me, I 
cannot understand how you and your like 
can have the impertinence to look down 
on me and mine. When you thought I 
had married an old man for his money, 
you considered that I had acted in a seem- 
ly and womanly manner; when you learn 
265 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

that, instead of selling myself in the mar- 
riage market, I have worked for my living 
honestly, you consider me — impossible. 
And yet I have done for half a dozen years 
what you couldn't do for half a dozen 
months.’’ 

'‘And what’s that?” Bretherton 
snapped. 

"Earned my bread, of course — without 
being beholden to any man and without 
a penny at my back. I wonder if it has 
ever entered into your head to ask your- 
self what use the world would have for 
you if you had n’t got money enough with 
which to pay your way !” 

All the scorn of years was in her voice 
— the bitterness, the resentment of one 
who had learned, in anger and in tears, 
that the crime of crimes is poverty, and 
flesh and blood cheaper to buy than dirt. 
But Bretherton, not understanding, 
266 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 


thought the scorn was aimed at him alone. 

“No, it has n’t,’’ he retorted, angry and 
insulted. 

“Well, it ’s a question that you might 
turn over in your own mind with consid- 
erable advantage to your moral character. 
Personally, I fancy that you would find the 
answer to be that the world had no use for 
you at all.” 

The cool, insulting certainty of her man- 
ner left him aghast and furious, the more 
so because, though the voice was the voice 
of Diana Massingberd, the words were an 
unpleasant echo of Sir Jabez Gr inlay. 

“Upon my word,” he spluttered. 

“If you don’t believe me,” she retorted, 
“you have only to try the experiment for 
yourself. Stand with your back against 
the wall, as I ’ve stood for the last six 
years, and fight the world on your own 
hand! You simply couldn’t do it — 
267 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 


you ’d throw up the sponge in a week/’ 

^'Do you take me for an absolute fool, 
then ?” he demanded wrathf ully. 

''No, but I take you for a man brought 
up in sloth and self-indulgence and there- 
fore incapable of putting your shoulder to 
the wheel — and incapable of seeing life as 
it really is. Your view of life is — must 
be — false and artificial. What is the 
meaning to people like you of the words, 
'If a man will not work, neither shall he 
eat ?’ Nothing — ^just nothing ! They have 
no meaning to you. You don’t under- 
stand them — and how could you?” 

Her eyes blazed and every word hit its 
mark and stung as she launched it at him 
— across the gulf. 

"Hang it all,” he cried furiously, "if 
I ’m such a hopeless ass and idiot as you 
make out, I wonder you ’ve ever had any- 
thing at all to do with me?” 

It was a random blow — but it counted 
268 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

to him all the same. Her face went sud- 
denly white and the leaping fire of scorn 
died down in her eyes and grew dim. 

“It would have been very much better 
for me/’ she said, “if I never had.” 

Then she turned quickly from him and 
the door closed behind her. 


269 


CHAPTER XII 


D iana went straight up to her room 
and finished her packing. She 
locked the doors while she packed; it 
struck her that Mrs. Cantelupe, on learn- 
ing the truth from her nephew, might pur- 
sue her with reproaches even into the fast- 
ness of her bedroom. And she was in no 
mood to see, or wrangle with, Mrs. Can- 
telupe or anyone else. She was exhaust- 
ed, broken, done; her face ached with the 
efforts she had made to keep herself from 
crying and she shook from head to foot. 

She had very little time to spare, and 
was only just ready when the chamber- 
maid knocked at the door to ask her if the 
porter should carry down her trunks. 
270 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

She stood miserably watching the man as 
he hoisted them upon his shoulders; she 
had worn her finery for the last time. 
Exit Mrs. Massingberd of Pontresina and 
re-enter Diana the drudge. She pulled 
her veil down over her face and hurried 
downstairs to the waiting carriage, afraid 
of meeting someone she knew, afraid 
above all of meeting Mrs. Cantelupe. But 
no one was in the hall except servants, 
expectant of tips, and Herr Ritter, smil- 
ing his good-bys and hoping to see Mrs. 
Massingberd another year. She choked 
down an outburst of hysterical laughter 
and told the driver to be quick. It was 
the same man who had driven her to the 
hotel from Samaden station less than three 
weeks ago ; and, with an ache at her heart 
that was almost intolerable, she remem- 
bered the delight of that drive. 

The journey homewards always re- 
mained in her memory as a nightmare. 

271 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


She would have given worlds to be alone, 
so that she might just lie and tremble with 
misery and sob when the need came on 
her ; but her second-class carriage — a first 
was beyond her means now — was crowd- 
ed, and she had to sit stiff, upright and 
mindful of the eyes of her companions. 
She dared not look out of the window at 
the mountains that were slipping away 
from her and going out of her life; she 
kept her eyes fixed on the luggage-rack 
opposite while the hum of the wheels beat 
a rackety measure inside her aching head. 

It was over now — all over. For her 
the world where you did what you liked, 
and not what you had to, had ceased to 
exist. She had seen it and known it, de- 
spised it and enjoyed it — ^but its gates, 
now, were closed to her for ever. 

At Basle she changed into the through 
carriage for Boulogne and then came the 
long night- journey, black and sleepless. 

272 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Still, if she could have had her wa}^ it 
would have been longer and slower ; it was 
the journey’s end she dreaded, the begin- 
ning again of the old life; and she hated 
to think that every yard covered by the 
rolling wheels was bringing her nearer to 
that. She never closed her eyes, but sat 
in the half-darkness cast by the shaded 
lamp while her huddled companions 
swayed to and fro with the motion of the 
train in various stages of sleepiness. She 
wondered idly what Victor had been do- 
ing since she left — whether he had worked 
off his wrath and indignation by a stren- 
uous afternoon on the links, or whether 
he had sufficiently recovered to join Mrs. 
Whyte-Fraser’s donkey-party. Of one 
thing she was quite sure: Mrs. Whyte- 
Fraser and her intimates would never 
know the true inwardness of the Massing- 
berd episode. They would never be al- 
lowed to learn that Captain the Honour- 
273 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

able Victor Bretherton had made himself 
ridiculous by dancing attendance on a 
shop-girl out for a holiday. 

It was a long time — ^not till the train 
was rumbling through France in the gray 
of the early morning — before she ever 
thought of Sir Jabez Grinlay, so complete- 
ly had her encounter with Victor driven 
every other consideration from her mind. 
Then, with something of a shock, she told 
herself that, after all, the drying-up of her 
own funds need not necessarily have 
meant her expulsion from the world that 
called itself by that name; had she ac- 
cepted Sir Jabez for better or worse, 
things might have been different. Even 
with that painfully lean purse of hers be- 
tween her fingers she could not find it in 
her heart to wish that she had given an- 
other answer to her former tyrant; but 
she did find herself wondering at her own 
courage and disinterestedness in refusing 
274 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

him so promptly and decidedly. So far as 
she could remember, she had not hesitated 
for an instant over his offer ; and she smiled 
a little bitterly as she realized why it was 
that she had been so certain and uncom- 
promising. She had had no hope of Vic- 
tor when she gave the baronet his blank, 
unqualified refusal; but she had had no 
heart to give to any other man. If she had 
never met Victor, she wondered, should 
she have been tempted into an acceptance ? 
and what would Sir Jabez’s attitude have 
been when the truth was confessed to him? 
Would his affection have stood the test 
under which Captain Bretherton had so 
lamentably broken down? Perhaps not; 
but at any rate he had not proposed to her 
for her money — having plenty of his own. 

At Amiens, she caught sight of the tow- 
ers of the cathedral and turned away her 
head; she remembered with what a thrill 
of delight she had leaned out of the win- 
275 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

dow to look at them on her journey to 
Paris, less than a month ago. Then came 
Boulogne and the boat and the unwelcome 
sea that was all that separated her now 
from England and what England meant 
to her. It was a dull gray sea with dull 
clouds overhead and a drizzling rain from 
them blotting out the distance; in every- 
thing, even in the weather, the ending of 
her travels was a contrast to their begin- 
ning. At Folkestone she ensconced her- 
self in the corner of a second-class car- 
riage and from sheer weariness of mind 
and body dozed till the train rolled into 
Charing Cross. 

With regard to the future her plans 
were necessarily simple, of her funds there 
remained but a shilling or two in hard 
cash ; her clothes would have to be turned 
into money on the morrow. For that 
night she intended to leave her boxes at 
the station and make for some cheap lodg- 
276 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


ings on the Surrey side where she had 
stayed once or twice when out of work. 
The landlady knew her well and, if her 
rooms were full, would recommend an- 
other place. Then would begin the search 
for work — which meant the means to live. 

She stepped out upon the familiar plat- 
form with a deadly sense of being at home 
again. Paris, Pontresina, the high pure 
Alps with the fir-trees climbing up their 
sides, the laughter, the music and the ad- 
miration — they had all been but the base- 
less fabric of a vision which, for a time, 
had passed before the forbidding face of 
London and the realities of life. 

The porter who took her boxes to the 
cloak-room and inquired whether he 
should call her a cab, waited expectantly 
for a tip. She felt in her pocket for cop- 
pers and having none, gave him a six- 
pence — purchasing, with almost the last 
poor remnant of her fortune, a “Thank 
277 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

you, ma’am,’' and the touch of a peaked 
cap. 

Then she walked out of the station, into 
the Strand; and London swallowed her up. 


278 


CHAPTER XIII 


F or fully two minutes after the door 
of Number Eleven had closed on Di- 
ana Massingberd, Captain Bretherton 
stood where she had left him, amazed, in- 
dignant, overwhelmed. Then he drew a 
long breath and looked around; his eye 
lighted on the bell ; he rang it and ordered 
a whiskey-and-soda. 

After that he felt better — decidedly bet- 
ter. Not, however, by any means him- 
self. His sensations were those of a man 
who has made acquaintance with an earth- 
quake in an unexpected place — say Ken- 
sington High Street or Pall Mall. It 
would have been shock enough to discover 
that the woman he had thought of marry- 
ing was of a class whence men of his own 
279 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


do not take their wives; but that had not 
been all. The shop-girl had turned and 
rent him on the score of his inferiority to 
herself. And a good deal of what she had 
said had sounded amazingly true — though 
of course it was not! It was downright 
ridiculous of her, as it was downright ri- 
diculous of Sir Jabez Gr inlay to take it 
for granted that because he habitually 
wore clean collars and kept his nails 
trimmed he was not worth his salt; that 
was just the unreasonable, superficial idea 
that the lower orders were apt to get into 
their heads. It was class prejudice — 
nothing more — and rot at that ! She must 
have known that all the time. She simply 
had gone for him like a fury because she 
felt she was utterly in the wrong and that 
there was no excuse to be made for her- 
self. 

He paced angrily up and down the room 
and was just on the point of ordering a 
280 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

second whiskey-and-soda to soothe his ruf- 
fled spirits, when it flashed into his mind 
that the half hour of which Mrs. Cante- 
lupe had spoken must be up and that, at 
any moment, his aunt might be upon him. 
And he felt that an explanatory interview 
with Mrs. Cantelupe was rather more than 
he could bear at that juncture; he must 
have time to think over what he was going 
to say to her, to decide exactly how far 
she was to be let into the secret of Diana’s 
masquerade, how far he would reveal what 
a fool she had made of him. He 
snatched up his cap from the table and 
darted out of the window. 

He made his escape only just in time. 
As he glanced round from the verandah 
he caught sight of his aunt’s familiar par- 
asol less than a hundred yards away and, 
hoping she had not seen him, he hurried 
round the corner of the house and sped 
up the hill-path. He walked rapidly and 
281 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 

angrily; so much so that he was soon out 
of breath. He sat down on a boulder, 
lighted a cigarette and began to think of 
all the things that he ought to have said to 
Diana — and hadn’t. Her point of view 
was ridiculous, of course, and, if he had 
been smarter, he could have proved it to 
her. He wished he had been smarter ; as 
it was, she would go away feeling that 
she had completely worsted him and that 
her position was unassailable — persuad- 
ing herself, it might be, that he was the 
hopeless idiot she had tried to make him 
out. It was the latter reflection that 
galled. 

As he stared down gloomily into the 
valley a carriage that, at that distance, 
seemed to crawl, came into sight on the 
Samaden road. He sat staring at it, won- 
dering if it was Diana’s ; and then, with a 
flash, he realized what he had failed to 
realize before — that he had seen Diana 
282 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

for the last time. He looked after the 
carriage without moving till his cigar- 
ette burned his fingers and he threw 
it away. When the carriage had disap- 
peared round a bend in the hill, he 
got up and walked rapidly for a mile or 
so — and found he was on the same 
path which he had trodden with Diana 
on the day she arrived at Pontresina. A 
little farther along was the chalet where 
they had had coffee and watched the sun- 
set together : he turned savagely and took 
another path. He scrambled on reckless- 
ly and then, breathless again, seated him- 
self with his back against a fir-tree and 
the sweep of the valley below him; he was 
not very sensitive to nature or its beau- 
ties but somehow the calm and majesty 
of the place was comforting. Then from 
the distance — away to the left — came a 
screech, dulled by distance, and a puff of 
white smoke and a diminutive caterpillar 
283 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

of a train crawled out of Samaden on its 
way to Coire and Zurich. Diana’s train. 

'1 ’ll leave the beastly place,” he mut- 
tered half-aloud. ’.ve had enough of 
it.” 

After all, that would be the best thing 
to do. With a kind of sick and angry re- 
sentment, he admitted that he should hate 
Pontresina, now that Diana was gone. 
She had treated him badly and she was a 
shop-girl; but she had left him in no mood 
for dances and donkey-parties. And if 
he was going he might as well go at once, 
walk to Samaden and take the first train 
to somewhere — it did n’t much matter 
where — and send a wire to Mrs. Cante- 
lupe telling her to forward his baggage. 
One advantage of such a course would be 
that the explanatory interview with his 
aunt would be avoided, a consummation 
devoutly to be wished. 

284 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Having decided on flight, he rose and 
swung downwards towards the Samaden 
road and, a little way from it (and to 
his intense disgust), overtook Major 
Why t e-Fraser. The major greeted him 
cheerfully and, with his constitutional in- 
capacity for discovering when he was 
not wanted, proceeded to walk by his side; 
and it was not until Victor had explained, 
with curt impatience, that he was not go- 
ing to make one of the afternoon donkey- 
party that it dawned upon his companion 
that Bretherton was looking a bit off. 

‘'Anything wrong?'’ he inquired. 

Victor flushed angrily. 

“Wrong — with me, do you mean? No, 
what should be wrong?" he returned not 
too politely. 

Major Whyte-Fraser apologized. 

“Oh, nothin' — sorry. Thought you 
were n't lookin' quite up to the mark. 
285 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Sorry you are n’t cornin’ this afternoon. 
I suppose the fair Diana will turn up? 
She ’ll miss you.” 

''Mrs. Massingberd has left Pon- 
tresina,” Bretherton returned stiffly — 
and then wished he had held his tongue. 

Major Whyte-Fraser had not seen his 
wife since breakfast and Diana’s depar- 
ture was news to him. His face showed 
that he connected it immediately with his 
companion’s appearance of being below 
the mark, and Bretherton felt a strong 
desire to knock him down. Instead he 
walked on by his side in silence — there 
being no chance of getting rid of the 
stolid Whyte-Fraser till they reached a 
fork in the path. 

And then suddenly an impulse — the im- 
pulse to appeal against outsiders, to one 
of his own class — made Bretherton turn 
to his companion. 

"I say, Whyte-Fraser, I want to ask you 
286 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


something. Supposing that I were left 
without a single penny in the world — 

The major was startled out of his 
equanimity and almost dropped his cigar. 

‘^God bless my soul, my dear fellow, 
you surely don’t mean — ?” 

‘‘No, I don’t,” Bretherton interrupted 
him. “My money — what there is of it — 
is all right. Tied up — trustees and that 
sort of thing — I couldn’t get at it if I 
wanted to. This is only a supposition.” 

Major Whyte-Fraser breathed freely 
again. 

“That ’s all right. Go on.” 

Victor went on — slowly and looking 
straight before him and ashamed of him- 
self for putting the question at all. 

“Well, then, supposing I were left with- 
out a single penny and had to turn to, 
as lots of other people have to, without 
help of any kind, does it strike you that 
I ’m the sort of man who could manage 
287 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


to make his own way in the world and, 
in short, earn his own living off his own 
bat?^’ 

Major Whyte-Fraser looked at him in 
amiable astonishment, 

''Yon, my dear chap?’’ he said. "Good 
Lord, no!” 

They had reached the spot where the 
path forked, and Bretherton nodded and 
left him without a word. 

In due course Mrs. Cantelupe received 
a wire, handed in at Samaden, stating 
that her nephew was on his way to Zurich 
and requesting her to forward his lug- 
gage by the next train. She complied, 
accompanying the luggage by a letter re- 
proaching him for his flight. Of course 
had known, she wrote, that things had 
gone wrong when she returned from her 
walk and found her nephew had vanished 
and Mrs. Massingberd retired to her room 
288 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

to pack (the latter piece of information 
she had gleaned from a chambermaid). 
But, naturally, she desired to know more ; 
she thought that Victor ought to have felt 
it due to her to tell her exactly what had 
taken place. She made every allowance 
for his trying situation; but surely he 
might have shown some small considera- 
tion for her suspense and anxiety! Was 
she to understand that Mrs. Massing- 
berd’s refusal of him was definite and 
final — that she declined to give him any 
hope whatever? If that was the case she 
— Mrs. Cantelupe — could not understand 
it ; she could only say that Mrs. Massing- 
berd had acted shamefully in encouraging 
Victor as she had done. But, in spite of 
appearances, she could not help hoping 
that things were not as bad as they 
seemed, that perhaps it was nothing but 
a temporary misunderstanding which had 
come between two people whom she be- 
289 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


lieved to be in every respect suited to each 
other. If that was the case, and there was 
anything she could do, would Victor write 
at once (underlined) and tell her every- 
thing (also underlined). Also to be sure 
not to forget to let her know Mrs. Mas- 
singberd’s address; she had stupidly for- 
gotten to ask her, etc., etc. 

Captain Bretherton’s answer to his 
aunt’s three-sheet effusion was decisive, 
if unsatisfactory. It was all over be- 
tween himself and Mrs. Massingberd; he 
did not know her address; neither did he 
know what his own would be for the pres- 
ent. He was leaving Zurich next morn- 
ing but had not yet made up his mind as 
to his destination. And with that Mrs. 
Cantelupe had, perforce, to be content. 

Having dispatched his letter. Captain 
Bretherton walked about the environs of 
Zurich; spent an hour or two on a lake 
steamboat ; and finally returned to his hotel 
290 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

feeling as if the bottom had been knocked 
out of his life. He disliked the sensation 
extremely. The evening was wet and he 
spent it in the hotel smoking-room, listen- 
ing to the cosmopolitan chatter around him 
and trying to make up his mind where he 
should go next day. Suppose he went 
back to England? Raynesworth would 
put him up for a bit and give him some 
shooting. That would take his thoughts 
away from . . . 

He began to think of her, of course — 
steadily. Staring down at the time-table 
on his knees, he wondered what she was 
doing. She was back in London by now 
— had arrived some hours ago. To-mor- 
row she would begin to look for work ; be- 
ing ''broke to the wide’’ she would have 
to look for it and look speedily. Suppose 
she had any difficulty in finding it? He 
put the uncomfortable thought aside. It 
was not likely; she knew the ropes and 
291 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 


had plenty of brains; it was not in the 
least likely. And besides, she had said 
that her dresses would fetch something, 
a few pounds, to go on with . . . 

He moved uneasily in his chair. There 
was no doubt of her pluck. After all she 
had some right to be proud of herself for 
fighting the world on her own hand — 
for six years and without a penny at her 
back. He found himself suddenly won- 
dering what it felt like to be without a 
penny — absolutely without a single penny. 
He had been ‘"broke” scores of times ; but 
that was quite another thing to having no 
money in your pocket. Of course there 
were heaps of people who had no money 
— the unemployed and the people who got 
poor relief out of the rates ; he had always 
pitied these vaguely, but had always felt, 
too, that they were of a different mold 
from that in which his own class was cast, 
less proud, less sensitive, uneducated and 
292 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


of an altogether coarser breed, accustomed 
to squalor and liking it. Many of them 
drank, too, and did n’t want work when 
they found it — so he understood. But 
Diana was certainly not of these. She 
was used to squalor, perhaps, but she cer- 
tainly did not like it ; as far as pride went, 
she was at least his equal. She fell short 
in no single particular of what was best 
in his own class ; it was impossible to think 
of her as coarser and less sensitive — and 
it was horrible to think of her without a 
penny. But after all, why should he as- 
sume that she would ever be without one ? 
She had managed to earn her own living 
for six years. She would go on earning 
it all right. 

The echo of her contemptuous words 
floated through his brain. 

'T have done for half a dozen years 
what you could n't do for half a dozen 
months: earned my bread.” 

293 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Again he stirred uneasily ; then slammed 
the book upon his knee and flung it on 
the nearest table. What right had she to 
assume that he was not able to do a man’s 
work in the world? And what right had 
that impertinent brute of a Grinlay and 
that ass of a Whyte-Fraser to assume the 
same thing? Was there something about 
him that gave the false impression that 
he was a spoon-fed incapable? The work 
that had come in his way he had always 
done well enough. There had been noth- 
ing against him in the Guards; the men 
had liked him and thought him a good 
officer. It was not his fault that nothing 
in the nature of serious effort had ever 
been demanded of him, that he could point 
to nothing of achievement in his life. 
What had there been for him to achieve? 
He only wished there had been something. 
He felt, in all honesty, that, given the op- 
portunity, he would have proved his met- 
294 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

tie and shown himself at least a man — 
not the mere useless idler of Diana Mas- 
singberd’s denunciation. It was not his 
own doing but sheer hard luck that the 
circumstances of his life had never per- 
mitted of such an opportunity. Perhaps 
they never would. 

Once again the memory of her scornful 
words echoed tauntingly in his ear. 

^^If you don’t believe me, you have only 
to try the experiment for yourself. Stand 
with your back against the wall as I Ve 
stood for the last six years, and fight the 
world on your own hand. You simply 
could n’t do it— you ’d throw up the sponge 
in a week.” 

That, at least, she had no right to say 
— that, at least, he could prove wrong! 
And he would. By heaven, he would! 

He rose with a suddenness that caused 
a neighboring bulky German to start and 
stare after him as he strode out of the 

295 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

room. He had not realized how keenly 
the doubts cast upon his own manliness 
had stung and wounded him until he had 
resolved to prove them false and un- 
founded. How he was going to do so he 
did not know as yet, but it was clear to 
him that his own self-respect demanded 
that he should give them the lie. He 
should never see Diana again — he cared 
nothing for Sir Jabez or Whyte-Fraser — 
but for his own satisfaction, for the sake 
of his own self-esteem, he could not sit 
down under the accusation that he was a 
parasite without pluck, a powerless, un- 
wanted fool. The pride of race in him 
forbade the belief that he was not the 
physical and mental equal of men who 
toiled and fought without the aid of un- 
earned increment ; he believed in blood and 
the courage of blood — and in the obliga- 
tion laid on those who possess it not to 
shirk in a tight place and to keep on till 
296 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


they drop. It was the aristocratic in- 
stinct within him — the sense of ^^noblesse 
oblige’’ — that told him Diana was wrong 
when she said he would throw up the 
sponge in a week. He might fail — yes; 
but that he knew he could not do. It was 
against nature and training, and, there- 
fore, unthinkable. 

He went up to his room, having given 
orders that he was to be called in time 
to catch the early train to Basle, but it 
was a long time before he slept. He had 
to think how his decision was to be car- 
ried out — and so very little to go upon 
when it came to forming plans. It was 
one thing to decide to stand with your 
back to the wall and fight the world on 
your own hand, another thing to set about 
doing it. He was to get work, he was to 
do without his income for six months. 
Diana had fixed the terms for him. ^^I 
have done for half a dozen years what 
297 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


you could n’t do for half a dozen months/’ 
she had said. But what was the work to 
be and how was it to be obtained ? That 
remained to be seen, but what others had 
done he could do. On that point he was 
very certain and determined. 

He left Zurich in the early morning 
with a curious sense of adventure and ex- 
citement. He was about to make for 
himself a place in the world, about to bat- 
tle with life, having c^st aside every 
weapon that birth and fortune had given 
him, about to prove himself a man among 
men by his own unaided efforts. Some- 
where in the back of his mind was the un- 
acknowledged hope that some day Diana 
would know. It was unlikely that they 
would ever meet again, though stranger 
things had happened ; but if they ever did 
meet again he would have to make it clear 
to her that it was for the sake of his own 
self-respect and not just in order to right 
298 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

himself in her eyes that he had resolved 
upon the step he was now taking. He 
insisted to himself upon that view of the 
situation. 

He had wired from Zurich that he was 
to be expected at his London rooms, and 
by midnight he was at home. When he 
had finished supper he sat down and wrote 
a letter to Mrs. Cantelupe; it ran as fol- 
lows: 

“ Dear Aunt Emma : As you will see by 
my address I am back in London but I don’t 
intend stopping — I shall move on somewhere 
else to-morrow. I have n’t made up my mind 
where I am going yet, but the fact is I feel I 
should rather be alone for a bit, so don’t be 
surprised or alarmed if you don’t hear any- 
thing of me for some time. Also, it will be 
no good writing to me as I sha’n’t give 
Stephens my address, so letters won’t be for- 
warded. You need n’t worry about me — 
I ’m all right. When you ’re writing to 
Raynesworth and the others you might let 
them know I ’m away and it ’s no good writ- 
299 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


ing for the present. Will let you know when 
I come back. Kind regards to Mrs. Whyte- 
Fraser. Your affectionate nephew, Victor.” 

He closed the letter, stamped it and 
looked round the room, wondering what 
sort of quarters he would be in to-morrow 
night. To a certain extent he had ma- 
tured his plans, but he had not yet settled 
definitely what form his work for a living 
was to take. He knew something about 
motors, a good deal about horses, and he 
hoped and believed that his knowledge 
would prove marketable. But, at first, at 
any rate, he would take whatever turned 
up ; he would abide strictly by the rules of 
the game, and nothing that would bring 
him in his daily bread should be beneath 
him. 

Stephens had left the morning’s paper 
upon the writing-table; he opened it and 
turned to the advertisements with a sud- 
den, interested desire to see how men 
300 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

without money and influence earned their 
bread in the open market. Perhaps there 
would be something for which he could 
apply; and he ran his finger down the col- 
umn, with a growing sense of bewilder- 
ment. Certainly it was a true saying that 
one-half of the world does not know how 
the other half lives. A good proportion of 
the announcements were mysterious to 
him. What, for instance, was the work 
of a ‘^boot clicker,’’ used to bespoke cut- 
ting? Of a ‘‘hair-pin hand in the brush 
trade,” or a “brilliant letter-fixer?” and 
why did butchers want good scalesmen 
and young men who were used to “dress- 
ing smalls?” There was nothing about 
horses or motors, and he tossed the paper 
aside and went up to bed. 

He went out directly after breakfast; 
made for Westminster Bridge and crossed 
it. He had an idea that somewhere in 
the mean streets that lay beyond it he 
301 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

should come across what he wanted — 
working-clothes. He bought a cheap suit 
— he had never imagined that suits could 
be bought so cheap — had it wrapped in 
brown paper and carried it home in a cab. 
He arrayed himself in it, not without re- 
pulsion, put on his thickest boots and se- 
lected a tweed cap ; and in the brown paper 
that had enwrapped his new garments he 
put a change of linen and tied the parcel 
up with string. 

There remained the question of how 
much money he was to take with him. In 
the first flush of his enthusiasm he had 
said 'Without a penny at my back,’’ but, 
now that the plunge was so near, he hesi- 
tated. Wages were not always paid in 
advance, he knew ; he might have to work 
and live for a day or two — perhaps a week 
— before he actually fingered coins that he 
had earned. He meditated uncertainly 
and then, with some misgivings as to his 
302 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

honesty, slipped a sovereign into his 
pocket. 

“I won’t touch it if I can help it,” he 
told himself. 

It only remained to start. He had sent 
Stephens out on an errand, so that the 
man should not see him in his new and 
strange array, and had already written 
him a note, which he stuck up against the 
looking-glass, to the effect that he had 
been called away and need not be ex- 
pected back. He walked to the head of the 
stairs and looked down ; no one was about 
and he tucked his brown paper parcel un- 
der his arm, ran downstairs and opened 
the hall door. He glanced nervously up 
and down the street and walked quickly 
away, with his face to the east. 

And then, in his turn, London swal- 
lowed him up. 


303 


CHAPTER XIV 


W ITH his footsteps shod with silence 
Police-Constable Fellowes of the 
C Division walked the Embankment and 
surveyed the river with unimaginative 
eyes. The season was November and the 
hour was three o’clock in the morning; 
there was only enough fog to blur the 
river lamps with mystery and make cloud- 
capped towers of the Cecil and Savoy. 
Below the parapet the tide was running 
strongly, sucking and lapping at the 
steamboat piers, the only thing, save 
Police-Constable Fellowes, that was not 
given over to utter sleep. 

Under the glow of one of the lamps Fel- 
lowes stopped and, for the edification of 

304 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


his superiors, made a laborious entry with 
a pencil in his note-book. The entry com- 
pleted to his satisfaction, he returned the 
note-book to his pocket, beat his cold 
hands together vigorously and, shod with 
silence, resumed his majestic walk. The 
Clock Tower loomed up vaguely wonder- 
ful out of the darkness, and he sighed, re- 
membering how long it was till breakfast- 
time should come round. 

Suddenly he halted and surveyed, with 
disapproving eyes, one of the Embank- 
ment seats. It had been empty when he 
last had passed that way; now it was oc- 
cupied by no less than three huddled fig- 
ures — two men and a woman who had 
taken advantage of his absence to snatch 
such sleep as might be snatched on a raw 
November night. Fellowes approached 
them with stealthy ponderosity; the pon- 
derosity was his own and the stealthiness 
an attribute of his boots. He put out a 

305 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


hand and shook one of the sleepers, not 
ungently, by the arm. 

‘'Now, then, wake up — wake up, d’you 
hear. This ’ere seat ain’t a doss-’ous — 
you ’ve got to move on.” 

The man — elderly, bent and blear-eyed 
— rose unresistingly and, without word of 
protest or resentment, shambled off into 
the night whence he had come and where 
he belonged. The other two, as yet un- 
touched, slept on. Fellowes left the 
crumpled old woman till the last and 
shook the man, who growled. Fellowes 
repeated his remark anent the doss-house 
— it was his usual formula for these occa- 
sions — and the man growled again and 
sullenly burrowed his face into the arm 
he had flung along the back of the seat. 
Fellowes, albeit by nature inclined to 
mercy, felt that more stringent measures 
were called for, and began to drag the 
refractory loafer off the seat. 

306 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

suppose you’re not deaf, are you?” 
he remarked sarcastically. '1 Ve been 
tellin’ you to move on for the last five min- 
utes. Now, up you get.” 

The man got up — or rather Fellowes 
got him up. Being up, he shook himself 
free of the constable’s hand, angrily. 

‘Why on earth can ’t you let me alone ?” 
he snarled. “What harm was I doing I 
should like to know — are n’t these seats 
made to sit down on? This moving on 
of poor, homeless devils is a perfectly in- 
human practice — a disgrace to civiliza- 
tion.” 

Fellowes was not a particularly observ- 
ant man, but he knew a gentleman’s voice 
when he heard it. Being a policeman, 
he was not particularly surprised; it was 
by no means the first time that he had met 
a well-bred accent keeping company with 
rags. All the same his eyes endeavored 
to scan the face under the battered cap, 

307 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


and his tone was a shade less surly and 
imperative as he made answer. 

“Can ’t help that — it 's our orders. 
Now, then, on you go — quick, march.’' 

The man turned with a sudden lift of the 
shoulders and a muttered curse — and 
the blurred glow of the river lamp fell on 
the face beneath the battered cap. The 
constable caught his breath in an aston- 
ished gasp. 

“Captain Bretherton ! It 's never you, 
sir — I beg your pardon, sir. I ’m sure 
I—” 

The loafer swung round sharply on his 
down-trodden heels — astonished and by 
no means pleased. 

“Why, who the deuce — ?” he asked 
sharply. 

Fellowes explained. “Don’t you re- 
member me, sir? I served in the Welsh 
Guards afore I got my discharge and 
joined the force. And in your company, 
308 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


sir — B Company. Private Fellowes.” 

His manner was stolid, grieved, re- 
spectful — gravely resentful of his officer’s 
downfall. Victor felt a sudden rush of 
gratitude to him for the use of the once 
familiar "^sir.” It was a petty thing to 
find pleasure in — but it brought with it 
an echo of the old sense of superiority, 
self-confidence, and command. Uncon- 
sciously he straightened himself in his 
ragged clothes, ceased to slouch and 
spoke from the station in life to which Fel- 
lowes’ deference had restored him. 

‘Why, of course, I remember you, Fel- 
lowes — didn’t recognize you in that get- 
up, though. Glad to see you — that ’s to 
say, I hope you ’re doing well ?” 

“Yes, sir, thanks, I ’m doin’ fairly well.” 
His eyes traveled over his former officer’s 
garments with respectful sympathy in 
their gaze, and he coughed regretfully. 
“I — I ’m afraid you ’re not, sir.” 

309 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Bretherton looked down at the frayed 
edge of his tattered coat, at his trousers, 
torn and bagging at the knees, at his 
boots, caked with mud, the uppers break- 
ing away from the soles, and smiled 
grimly. 

'‘It does n’t seem very like it, does it ?” 

Again the constable’s sympathetic eyes 
surveyed him from tattered cap to bat- 
tered heel; and again he coughed respect- 
fully. 

"I ’m sorry to see you like this, sir — 
so redooced in circumstances. I am, in- 
deed, sir.” 

"Thank you,” Bretherton nodded. He 
had been resentful enough at first when 
Fellowes recognized him; now he was 
glad of the man’s company. It was some- 
thing to be treated as a human being 
again and not as a derelict, an out-of- 
work, a thing to be pitied, patronized or 
kicked. Fellowes pitied him, of course; 
310 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


but in the right way, in a spirit of good 
comradeship and respect. His stolid, 
unemotional sympathy was not only toler- 
able but grateful, and the policeman's 
next words were as balm in Gilead to his 
sore and humbled self-esteem. 

‘We all liked you in the rig'ment, sir; 
there was n’t an officer as the men thought 
more off— that there was n’t.” 

Bretherton could have gripped him by 
his big, gloved hand as he stood hesitat- 
ing how to go on. 

“And if there was anything — anything 
at all as I could do, sir — ” 

Bretherton understood what was com- 
ing, and hastened to give the constable’s 
thoughts another direction. 

“Well, if it wouldn’t get you into any 
very serious trouble with your superiors, 
perhaps you ’d let me resume my seat for 
a bit. May I? Thanks.” 

He seated himself at one end of the 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


bench. Farther along it a humped shawl 
and bonnet occasionally stirred and, less 
occasionally, snored. The wearer of the 
shawl and bonnet had learned to sleep 
when and how she could, and to rouse her- 
self only when the Arm of the Law was 
laid on her shoulder. When it was so laid, 
she, too, would go off into the night where 
she belonged; meanwhile she dozed un- 
beautifully. For the present Fellowes 
left her unmolested, his mind being occu- 
pied with other things. 

''And — Fellowes?’' Bretherton said, 
hungrily. 

"Yes, sir?” 

"I suppose you Ve not got a morsel — 
just a morsel of tobacco about you?” 

Fellowes dived into his pocket and pro- 
duced a pouch. 

"I have, sir; but I’m afraid it’s not 
quite the sort you ’re used to, sir.” Fel- 
lowes remembered his captain’s ha- 
312 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


vanas, and the price his captain used to 
pay for them. 

“You ’re quite right,” Bretherton 
nodded, “it ’s not the sort I ’m used to, 
because I Ve got out of the way of being 
used to any form of tobacco. Ah!” with 
a sigh of satisfaction he filled a battered 
clay pipe, lighted it and sucked at it, 
“that ’s good 1 Three days since I had a 
whiff of the blessed stuff — three mortal 
days.” 

“You don’t say so, sir,” Fellowes sym- 
pathized. 

“I do.” He puffed out a cloud of the 
rank smoke with infinite satisfaction. 
“Cash has n’t run to it, Fellowes. Do 
you know what my total takings have 
been for the last twenty-four hours ? 
Threepence halfpenny. And the half- 
penny was a Frenchman.” 

The estimable Fellowes shook his hel- 
meted head in silent dismay. He had al- 

313 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


ways known that Captain Bretherton was 
a bit too free with his money; but he had 
never imagined that a young man with 
his connections, and the son of a viscount 
to boot, would be allowed to find his way 
to the lower depths where food was scarce 
and tobacco an unattainable luxury. 

‘'It ’s a bad job,’’ he said at length. 
‘‘ ‘Eavy financial losses, I suppose, sir ?” 

What with Fellowes’ respectful sympa- 
thy and Fellowes’ inferior tobacco, Bre- 
therton’s spirits had risen distinctly. He 
had found a friend; and the night was a 
little less dark, the air a little less raw, 
the world* in general less contemptuously 
bleak. His answer was almost cheerful. 

“Why, not exactly — light financial 
gains would be a bit nearer the mark.” 

“Beg pardon, sir?” Fellowes queried. 

Bretherton hesitated, and then decided 
on making a clean breast of it. It was so 
good to talk; besides it was possible that 

314 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Fellowes might put him in the right way 
to obtain that place in the work-a-day 
world for which, during three long 
months, he had sought, and sought in 
vain. 

'The truth is, Fellowes,’’ he said, "that 
I ’m not quite so badly off as I look.” 

"I ’m very glad to ’ear it, sir,” the con- 
stable returned in a tone that betrayed his 
firm conviction that his companion might 
be a great deal better off than he looked, 
and still be far from sound financially. 
"But, if that ’s the case, sir — ” 

"If that ’s the case, why am I mas- 
querading on the Embankment in gar- 
ments only fit for a door-heap, eh ? 
Well — ” he hesitated, puffed out another 
cloud of smoke, and then went on slowly 
— "it ’s on account of what you might call 
a challenge.” 

"A challenge, sir?” Fellowes repeated 
in stolid non-comprehension. 

315 


DIANA OF DOBSON^S 


'^Yes, a challenge. What you might 
call a — sort of a bet.’^ , 

It took a good deal to surprise Police- 
Constable Fellowes, but Br ether ton had 
done the trick twice that night — this time 
so completely that it was a moment or two 
before the constable found words where- 
with to clothe his amazement. 

^Wou ’re walking about the Embank- 
ment, in them boots, on account of a bet, 
sir?” 

‘^A sort of a bet,” Bretherton re- 
peated. 

‘‘If I was you, sir,” the constable ad- 
vised firmly, “I should stick to the 
’orses.” 

Bretherton laughed a little drearily. 

“I think I will, Fellowes — after next 
February.” 

“After next February, sir?” Fellowes 
repeated questioningly. 

“Yes,” Bretherton nodded doggedly, 
316 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

with his teeth shut on the pipe-stem. 
''1 Ve got to go on with this sort of thing 
till then.’^ 

This time Fellowes was not only 
amazed; he was seriously concerned. 

‘‘You Ve got to go on sleeping out till 
next February, sir? Why, you'll never 
stand it— these 'ere cold nights 'll be the 
death of you." 

“Oh, you needn't think I always sleep 
out," Bretherton answered him hastily. 
“When I 've got the necessary twopence 
I patronize a doss-house." 

Fellowes began to feel doubts — very 
considerable doubts — as to his former 
officer's sanity. 

“But what 's the hobject of it all, sir?" 
he remonstrated. “What 's the hobject 
of sleeping out on one of these 'ard seats 
or even in a twopenny doss when you 've 
got a comfortable 'ome of your own wait- 
ing for you?" 


317 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


For the first time for many weeks 
Bretherton was amused; the policeman’s 
stolid perplexity appealed to his sense of 
humor. 

'The object of it all, Fellowes, is simply 
this: To discover whether or not I am 
capable of earning my own living by the 
work of my own unaided hands — and 
brains — for the space of six calendar 
months.” 

Fellowes reflected — allowed the words 
to sink into his brain, and then remarked 
tersely : 

"Well, I ’m damned!” 

"I suppose,” Bretherton went on with 
a shrug of his shoulders, "that you can ’t 
give me any tip on how to manage it? 
The smallest contribution in the way of 
a suggestion will be thankfully received. 
Tell me, how on earth does a man set 
about earning a living? I don’t mean 
a chap who has been at a Board School 
318 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


and has a trade at his fingers’ ends, but a 
man who has scrambled through Eton 
and Oxford and had practically no edu- 
cation at all ?” 

It was the first time Police-Constable 
Fellowes had ever been consulted with 
regard to the career of a gentleman who 
had had the advantages of a public school 
and university training. He gave Bre- 
therton’s question a full minute’s earnest 
consideration, but could find nothing more 
enlightening to say than : 

''I suppose ’is friends usually gets ’im 
some sort of a berth, don’t they, sir?” 

The suggestion was accurate, as far as 
it went, but scarcely of use to Bretherton. 

''But if he has n’t got any friends?” he 
urged. "If he has to worry along on his 
own ?” 

The constable reflected again, without 
any better success. His orderly, unimag- 
inative mind could find no place for Victor 

319 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


in the scheme of things entire. For 
Victor as he was, that is to say, Victor 
as he used to be was a different matter. 
An officer and a gentleman had his very 
definite place, a place whence he dispensed 
orders and, on occasions, tips. 

''It ’s a bit difficult to say,” he admitted, 
after a longer pause. "I suppose he looks 
out for a job.” 

"Of course he looks out for a job,” 
Victor groaned with the bitterness of one 
who had looked and looked in vain, "but 
how the deuce does he get it? From my 
experience of the last few weeks, I should 
say that all trades are closed to the man 
whose education has cost his father more 
than five hundred a year. For the last 
three months I Ve been trying to earn my 
livelihood honestly and in the s\veat of my 
brow — net result, a few odd jobs at the 
docks and a shilling for sweeping up the 
leaves of an old gentleman’s back garden. 
320 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


My present profession is cab-chasing.’’ 

‘'That ain’t much of a trade, sir,” was 
Fellowes’ comment. “You ’re right,” 
Bretherton agreed, “it ’s not. Occasion- 
ally, at the end of a two-mile trot, I re- 
ceive sixpence, in return for the privilege 
of carrying several trunks up four flights 
of stairs; but more often my services are 
declined — without thanks.” 

Again Fellowes meditated, and then 
spoke his mind. 

“I should give it up, sir, if I was you.” 

Bretherton shrugged his shoulders irri- 
tably. Fellowes was like everyone else; 
his well-meant and ponderously delivered 
advice was, after all, but an echo of 
Diana’s taunt that, apart from his money, 
the world would have no use for him at 
all. 

“I ’ll be hanged if I do,” he said shortly. 

“Just pride, sir?” 'the constable sug- 
gested. 


321 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Victor took the pipe from between his 
lips and looked up at him defiantly. 

'^That ’s it, I suppose — ^just pride. 
Hang it all, it makes a man feel small 
when he realizes that he has n’t got any 
market value at all.” 

Fellowes, who had had dealings with 
the unwanted, agreed that it did. Victor 
stared out into the haze above the river 
and spoke out of the bitterness of his heart. 

‘'I don’t mind owning that, if I ’d 
known what I was letting myself in for 
three months ago, I should have thought 
twice — a good many times— before I 
joined the ranks of the unwashed and un- 
employed. But, now I ’ve started, I ’ve 
got to worry through — somehow.” 

He paused for a reply; but Fellowes’ 
only comment was a doubtful cough. 
Bretherton thrust the comfortable pipe 
into his mouth again and produced the 
ghost of a laugh. 


322 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

''Meanwhile, the devil only knows 
where my next meal comes in ! I suppose 
you couldn’t suggest any means of ac- 
quiring it — honest if possible?” 

Fellowes obligingly racked his brains 
— with entirely unsatisfactory results. 
So far as he could see, the only way in 
which he could assist Captain the Hon- 
ourable Victor Bretherton to a much- 
needed breakfast would be by the offer of 
a small loan; and he was not quite sure 
whether a former officer in the Welsh 
Guards would not consider it beneath his 
dignity to borrow a shilling from a former 
private in the same distinguished regi- 
ment. He hesitated and coughed, still 
more doubtfully, while his hand began to 
fumble under his capacious coat. 

"I ’m afraid I can ’t think of anything 
at this moment, sir. But— I ’m sure you 
won’t think I ’m taking a liberty, sir — 
if the loan of a bob — I ’d be proud — ” 

323 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘‘No/’ Bretherton said sharply, the 
temptation to accept it was so strong. 
''No, Fellowes, I won’t. You ’re a good 
chap — and thank you — but I won’t.” 

"You ’d better, sir,” the policeman 
urged. "A drop of something hot ’ud do 
you good and there ’s a coffee-stall just 
along there.” 

Bretherton cut him short irritably. 

"Yes, I know there ’s a coffee-stall 
along there. For the last half hour I ’ve 
been trying not to see it — and smell it.” 
He broke off ashamed of his own access 
of bad temper and then went on more 
quietly: "I hope you don’t think I’m 
too proud to accept a loan from you, Fel- 
lowes. It is n’t that at all — but I ’m play- 
ing the game on my own.” 

Fellowes slipped the coin regretfully 
back into his pocket ; he saw that Brether- 
ton was dogged and persuasion useless. 

"Well, if you won’t, sir, I must be mov- 

324 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

ing along my beat; but if you should 
’appen to change your mind by the time 
I ’m round this way again — ” 

‘Don’t tempt me, Fellowes, don’t 
tempt me,” Bretherton groaned. “By 
the way, I suppose I can stay on this seat 
for a bit longer?” 

“That ’s all right, sir,” the policeman 
nodded; but he did not extend the per- 
mission to the other occupant of the seat, 
and his hand went out to the hunched 
bundle which, as he touched it, ceased to 
snore. Something in the wretched hu- 
mility of the object’s attitude caused Vic- 
tor to protest. 

“Can ’t you leave the old scarecrow, 
too ? There ’s plenty of room for us 
both, now you ’ve turned off the other 
poor devil.” 

Fellowes’ gloved hand drew back from 
the scarecrow’s shoulder ; he rolled on 
majestically towards Westminster Bridge 

325 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


and vanished into the night. As the haze 
swallowed him, the scarecrow opened an 
eye and surveyed his retreating form 
with stealthy satisfaction. She had 
scored one in the game of moving on — 
that drearily exciting contest between 
herself and the police. 

'The copper ’s gone on and never turned 
us off,’’ she wheezed, in cheerful aston- 
ishment. "That ’s a blessin'. I did n’t 
want to be moved on from ’ere. I chose 
this seat particular, so as to be near the 
coffee-stall. I ’m ’avin’ my brekfus there 
later on.” 

"You ’re lucky,” Victor retorted rue- 
fully, "wish I was.” Even this withered 
creature of the night was not so utterly 
destitute and unacceptable as he. Some- 
where or another, by some means or an- 
other, she had managed to wrench or 
wheedle from an unsympathetic world the 
326 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

wherewithal to buy a meal — which was 
mofe than he had done. 

The creature surveyed him disapprov- 
ingly, and spoke with decision. 

'Tt 's no use you hntin’ ! I 'm not goin’ 
to stand yer treat, if that ’s what yer 
mean.’’ 

'T assure you,” he stammered, com- 
pletely taken aback. 'T was n’t thinking 
of such a thing — I had n’t the least idea.” 

His assurances mollified her; but it did 
not escape him that, with instinctive sus- 
picion, she had removed a battered and 
unpleasant-looking parcel, containing 
heaven knew what of food or rags, far- 
ther away from him along the seat. Per- 
haps the thing that struck him most and 
irritated him most in the new world where 
he had lived during the last three months, 
was the atmosphere of ceaseless suspicion 
and alert expectance of dishonesty. 

327 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


Where he walked about expecting frank- 
ness and plain dealing, the men and 
women of the underworld peered out with 
frightened eyes for guile, and saw no in- 
sult in their openly expressed distrust. 
He had realized something of the inev- 
itability of their state of mind, and felt 
himself foolish to resent it; nevertheless 
he did resent it and, perhaps, in this in- 
stance, his resentment was reflected in his 
face, for the ragged bundle who shared 
the seat with him pursued the conversa- 
tion. 

‘'Not that I would n’t be willin’ to stand 
yer a cup of cawfee,” she explained, “if 
I ’ad the money ; but I ’ve only got 
enough to pay for myself.” 

Victor muttered a word of thanks for 
her kind intentions and wished she would 
go to sleep while she had the opportunity, 
but she continued to survey him with 
thoughtful interest. 

328 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘What ’s brought a nice-spoken young 
man like you down to this?’’ she de- 
manded suddenly. 

“Can ’t get work,” he replied, lacon- 
ically and with irritation. 

She meditated for a minute or two, 
shaking her head, and gazing out over 
the river with her bleared eyes. 

“Tike my advice, dearie,” she said 
softly at last, “and leave it alone.” 

Bretherton started. In the silence his 
thoughts had wandered off into another 
direction, and it was with an effort that 
he recalled his last remark. 

“What — work?” he asked in surprise. 

The scarecrow’s bonnet gave a negative 
quiver. 

“Not the work, dearie, “ she said, “the 
drink.” 

Bretherton laughed grimly and, with 
perfect truth, assured her that he had not 
touched a drop for weeks. The scare- 

329 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


crow smiled back at him, a smile in which 
cunning comprehension was mingled with 
a growing drowsiness. 

'That ’s because you ’ave n’t ’ad the 
money ; if you ’d bin flush it ’ud ha’ bin a 
different story. I knows yer. Tike my 
advice, dearie — an old woman’s advice — 
and, when the luck turns, leave it alone.” 

She yawned and tucked her dirty hands 
closer to her sides beneath her shawl. 

"And now you an’ me ’ull ’ave our 
forty till the copper come rahnd again. 
Pleasant dreams, dearie.” The last 
words were punctuated with an incipient 
snore, as her head slipped down and she 
collapsed into an inhuman lump of rags 
and wretchedness. By her side Brether- 
ton stared out into the night and thought 
of the three months that had passed and 
the three months that were yet to come. 

So far he had proved — what? That 
Diana was right? Undoubtedly. Cast 

330 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

on his own resources — as she had been — 
into the world of London, he had failed, 
and failed utterly, to make for himself a 
place. It was the black and bitter truth 
that, until three months ago, he had ex- 
isted solely by virtue of the position his 
fathers had made for him and the money 
he had not earned. More, the last three 
months had proved to him, in humiliating 
fashion, that he was quite incapable of ex- 
isting in any other way. The net result 
of his acceptance of Diana’s taunting 
challenge had been the discovery that he 
was a failure. There was no other word 
for it — a failure! 

Yet the knowledge did not sting and hu- 
miliate him as the mere suspicion of his 
own incompetency had done three months 
ago. In the interval he had learned 
much — above all, how to make excuses for 
those who go under. The interval be- 
tween the respectability of the black coat 

331 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

and the rags of the Embankment was — he 
knew it now — so narrow and so easily 
overstepped; in the doss-house and the 
docks he had drifted against men whose 
voice and speech had told him that they 
were what he was — for life. And he had 
learned the meaning of the words that 
Diana had flung at him in her wrath, ''If 
a man will not work neither shall he eat.^' 
He was not a man given to, or even capa- 
ble of, analyzing his feelings; but he re- 
alized dimly that he was the better for the 
knowledge he had gathered in the under- 
world. It was something to know that 
the underworld existed — even though he 
himself could find no hope, could formu- 
late no theory of aid, for those who moved 
amid its darkness. 

But Diana — would that view of the case 
content Diana? He always came back to 
that point in the end. He had admitted 
many things to himself during the last 

332 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

three months; and one of them was that, 
consciously or unconsciously, the motive 
for his plunge into the underworld had 
been the desire to justify his existence in 
the eyes of Diana Massingberd. He knew 
now that his purpose was to seek her out 
at the end of his probation, to find her by 
some means or other — ^by advertisement, 
by inquiry — and tell her what he had 
done for love of her. Imperceptibly, dur- 
ing the last three months, the barrier that 
had once stood, fast and firm, between 
himself and a shop-girl, had crumbled into 
nothingness; with his new knowledge of 
things as they are, instead of things as 
they seem, he wondered how he could ever 
have believed in its existence. For he had 
come to judge men and women by what 
they were instead of by what they pos- 
sessed. 

But Diana — that was her standard too, 
and she would judge him as a failure. 
333 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


She had told him that he would prove 
one; all he could say to her was that her 
words were true to the letter. Would it 
be enough for her that he had tried — and 
failed? He groaned; and the old woman 
beside him stirred. 

‘‘What’s matter, dearie?” she inquired 
sleepily. 

“I was only thinking what a silly fool 
I am,” he told her. 

She grunted and wriggled closer 
against the seat. 

“We ’re all of us that, dearie — or we 
should n’t be here.” 

Her voice trailed off into a snore and 
he sat, uncomforted, with his hand upon 
his head. With thoughts of Diana be- 
gan to mingle longings for his problem- 
atic breakfast and an aching vision of the 
Carlton last time he had dined there. He 
sucked fiercely at his pipe; it had gone 
out, but there was still a little tobacco left 
334 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

in it. He felt for his matches and, half 
turning his head, saw that he and the 
scarecrow were no longer alone upon 
the bench. Another silent creature of the 
night — a woman — had crept up out of the 
darkness and taken the vacant place be- 
yond the snoring bundle. She sat with 
bent head and hands tucked for warmth 
into the pockets of her shabby jacket; the 
light from his match showed him that, 
and something in the attitude was sud- 
denly familiar. He leaned forward, hold- 
ing the match in the still air, till its flame 
shone upon a down-turned face surmount- 
ed by a shapeless hat. 

It was Diana Massingberd 


335 


CHAPTER XV 


D IANA’S head rose with a jerk as 
she heard her name. The burned- 
out match had fallen from Bretherton’s fin- 
gers, and she saw only the outline of a 
shabby figure leaning forward on a seat 
and divided from her by the scarecrow. 

''Who are you?” she asked in sullen 
surprise. 

"My name ’s Bretherton.” 

She repeated it stupidly — and then 
started and peered through the darkness. 
"Not— Captain Bretherton?” 

"The same,” he said with a little, awk- 
ward laugh. 

She looked at him in grave incredulity 
and drew her hand across her forehead. 
Even in the uncertain light he could see 

336 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

that her fingers were coming through her 
gloves. 

''What are you doing here?’^ she asked 
abruptly. 

He parried the question with "What 
are you?’’ She leaned back defiantly and 
dug her hands deep into her pockets. 

"If you want to know,” she said, "I ’m 
here because I have nowhere else to go. 
I ’m resting on this seat till a policeman 
moves me on.” 

He bit back a curse. What he could 
bear for himself, he could not bear for 
her. And yet, the next moment, he was 
glad (with a thrill of shame at his own 
gladness) that she was a failure, too. 
For surely, that was the meaning of her 
presence here; the Embankment at three 
of a November morning was sacred to the 
failure and the constable. 

He looked out at the river and imitated 
her own matter-of-fact tone. 

337 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


‘That ’s exactly my case — only I Ve 
got an advantage over you. The police- 
man on this beat happens to be an old 
friend of mine and he says I may stay 
here as long as I like.'’ 

He was waiting for a touch of emotion 
in her, of softening towards himself. 
None came. 

“If you Ve so much influence with the 
powers that be,” she jeered, “perhaps 
you 'll intercede with them for me ?'' 

“With pleasure,'' Bretherton said po- 
litely — wondering how much longer this 
farce was to be kept up. He was rather 
relieved when she turned on him impa- 
tiently. 

“What are you masquerading like this 
for? Are you trying to eke out your 
totally inadequate income by sensational 
journalism?” 

“By sensational journalism?” he repeat- 
ed, taken aback. 


338 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


thought perhaps you were writing up 
the horrors of midnight London for a 
halfpenny paper/’ she explained reckless- 
ly. ''If you are, I dare say I could be of 
some assistance to you — give you some 
good tips — ” 

He understood why she spoke like that. 
He, too, had felt as she did now — his hand 
against every man’s and every man’s hand 
against him. 

"You know I ’m not clever enough for 
that,” he said. 

Again she looked at him sharply across 
the scarecrow. 

"Then what are you doing?” she de- 
manded. 

"Looking for work,” he answered, dog- 
gedly. 

She said nothing for a moment, but in 
the darkness he heard her shift a little 
on her seat and knew that she was sur- 
veying him even more closely — his un- 
339 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


shorn face, his tattered coat, his boots. 
He waited for her to speak. 

‘^You don’t mean to tell me that this is 
genuine — that you are penniless — like 
me ?” 

''Are you penniless?” he asked, with a 
catch at his throat. 

She shrugged her shoulders and leaned 
back again. 

"Quite,” she said briefly. 

Again something caught at his throat 
and the desire to curse — something or 
someone — was hot in his heart; but he 
only said huskily, "Tell me about it.” 

"What’s the use?” she objected defi- 
antly. 

"Tell me,” he urged again. She looked 
fixedly away from him with eyes that had 
begun to smart. 

"I ’ve had hard times since — since I saw 
you?” 

"No work?” he suggested gently. He 

340 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

knew what that meant, now — he knew. 

''Very little. I got a job soon after I 
came back to London. Only kept it a 
fortnight, though.’" She spoke in jerks, 
the back of her head towards him. 

"How was that?” he asked as she 
paused. 

"Knocked up — got a chill — was ill for 
weeks. Had to leave and go into lodg- 
ings. That took the rest of my money. 
Since then — ” 

She broke off, perforce, swallowing 
lumps in her throat and fighting with her 
own self-pity. Before Victor Bretherton, 
of all men on earth, she must keep a stiff 
upper lip, remembering what their last 
interview had been. She gave a final de- 
termined gulp and got out something that 
bore a faint and mirthless likeness to a 
laugh. 

"Oh, of course I have no right to 
grumble— no right at all. If I hadn’t 

341 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


behaved like a lunatic — if I’d taken prop- 
er care of my little fortune — my three 
hundred pounds — I should n’t have been 
turned out of my lodgings because I 
could n’t pay the bill, should I ? So I ’ve 
only myself to blame. I suppose that 
ought to be a comforting reflection, but I 
don’t know that it is— particularly. Still, 
after all, I don’t regret having played the 
fool — no, I don’t, I don’t. It was worth 
it — worth every penny of the money. I 
had my good time — my glorious month — 
when I did what I liked and said what I 
liked and humbugged the lot of you — ” 

She stopped again, bit her lip and red- 
dened. 

‘"No,” she corrected herself, ^‘I didn’t 
mean that. I ought n’t to have said that 
to you — now. Please forgive me.” 

‘Df course I forgive you,” he assured 
her. The shapeless black hat shaded her 
eyes from him, but he knew instinctively 

342 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


that they were looking at him more gently 
— and when she spoke again the flippant 
hardness had gone from her voice. 

''Now, it ’s your turn to tell me things,’’ 
she said. "How long is it since you lost 
your money?” 

She took it for granted that he had lost 
his money. He hesitated as to whether 
he should undeceive her immediately and 
decided to lead up to the announcement 
with caution. It was his turn now to look 
away from her, twisting the empty pipe 
between his fingers. 

"I ’ve been at this sort of game for the 
last three months.” 

"Three months?” She made a rapid 
calculation. "Why, it ’s not much more 
than that since I was at Pontresina !” 

"Not very much more,” he assented. 

Suddenly and to his intense surprise, 
she broke into a nervous giggle. The 
tears ran down her cheeks and she leaned 
343 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


back and wiped them away helplessly, try- 
ing in vain to get out an intelligible word. 

'What’s the joke?” he asked, bewil- 
dered and a little hurt. 

She shook her head weakly, tried to ex- 
plain, and slid off into another fit of silly 
laughter. 

"I — can ’t help it,” she wailed at last. 
"It just struck me — if only the people — 
the people who knew us at the Engadine 
— could see us now!” She nodded to- 
wards his rags and shook convulsively. 

"They’d notice a difference,” Victor 
agreed grimly. 

"They would. Do you — ” she gurgled 
and almost choked with laughter — "do 
you remember — my pink dress? We 
were both of us rather — rather smart in 
those days, weren’t we? Just — ^just look 
at my gloves!” 

She held up a hand with every finger 
protruding. Bretherton’s cold red hands 
344 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

had been guiltless of gloves for many a 
week, but he extended a mud-caked foot. 

'They ’re not worse than my boots.” 

She looked down at the boots and her 
shoulders no longer shook; he ceased to be 
humorous in her eyes and became simply 
pathetic. After all, how infinitely worse 
it must be for him than it was for her — 
for the big, spoiled boy who had lounged 
his selfish way through life and had never 
known the meaning of work, of hardship, 
of all there is comprised in the cold word 
necessity! She felt a lump in her throat 
again ; and would have given anything in 
the wide world to be able to help him, to 
be able to see him as he used to be, neat, 
immaculate, expensive. 

"You poor fellow,” she said. "You 
poor fellow, you must find it terribly hard.” 

He nodded an assent while she looked 
at him thoughtfully. It was clear to her 
that something more than just financial 
345 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


ruin must have befallen him; even with- 
out a penny he could actually call his own, 
Lord Raynesworth's brother and Mrs. 
Cantelupe’s nephew ought to be safe from 
the poverty that means want. There must 
have been some quarrel with his family, 
some very bitter cause of offence, since 
they could let him fall to this. 

‘'Won't your people do anything for 
you?" she asked. “They ought to. Sure- 
ly your brother — " 

“I have n't asked him," Bretherton in- 
terrupted her. 

“Have you quarreled with him, then?” 

“No." He hesitated and turned his 
face away again. “No, I haven't quar- 
reled with him. The fact is, he does n't 
know; none of them know — " 

He halted and Diana stared at him in 
blank astonishment. Here was something 
approaching insanity. 

“They don't know that you have lost 

346 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

your money?’’ she repeated incredulously. 
He nodded in silence. 

‘‘But they must know,” she insisted. 

You must tell them. It is perfectly ri- 
diculous of you not to have told them be- 
fore. They ’ll be only too glad to help 
you when they know — at any rate, they ’ll 
give you a start.” 

“I don’t want them to give me a start,” 
he retorted curtly. 

“You don’t want them to give you a 
start? But — ” 

“Miss Massingberd,” he broke in dog- 
gedly, ‘T ’m trying to do what you said I 
could n’t — fight the world on my own.” 

There was a silence ruffled only by 
a tremendous snore from the scarecrow. 
In Diana’s eyes were amazement, pity, 
self-reproach and something else besides. 
It was because of the taunts that she had 
flung at him that he was here, homeless 
and hungry and with his feet coming 
347 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


through his boots. Because of what she 
had said, he, so utterly incapable of life 
in earnest, had come out into the real 
world to prove himself a man — and had 
failed, even as she had done. But he had 
cared enough to try. 

‘'You don’t mean,” she said, striving to 
keep her voice steady, “you surely don’t 
mean that — because of all the ridiculous 
things I said — when I was angry — ” 

His head gave an emphatic assent. 

“I do; but they were not ridiculous. 
My own experience has proved that they 
were perfectly correct — except in one par- 
ticular. You said that I should throw up 
the sponge in a week. I haven’t done 
that.” 

Again, in the silence between them, the 
scarecrow snored. Bretherton, waiting 
for Diana to speak, glanced covertly to- 
wards her face; but, being bent down- 
wards, it was darkened under the shadow 

348 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

of the shapeless hat. When she spoke at 
last her voice was level and controlled, but 
low. 

‘‘Then it is through me that you have 
come down to this?’’ 

“Yes,” he muttered. 

“I am — very sorry.” 

“Sorry?” he repeated with a lift of hi$ 
shoulders. “You ought to be glad.” 

“Glad?” She turned on him, her eyes 
bright and almost fierce. “Glad to see 
you like this — like this — when you might 
have applied to your friends, might have — 
You must apply to them at once — at once, 
do you hear ?” 

The time had come to make a clean 
breast of the whole business; he cleared 
his throat and shifted his feet awkwardly. 

“Do you hear?” she repeated impa- 
tiently. 

“Miss Massingberd,” he said slowly, “I 

349 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


think it is only fair to tell you that you 
have made a mistake/’ 

"'A mistake? What mistake?” 

^'A very natural one, of course,” he 
went on steadily; but with his heart 
thumping hard beneath his tattered coat. 
“Finding me apparently homeless on the 
Embankment, you have jumped to the 
conclusion that I am a ruined man. But 
I ’m not; though I have n’t a penny in my 
pocket, I ’ve still got six hundred a year 
when I choose to make use of it.” 

She said nothing articulate ; but he 
heard her check an exclamation and saw 
her draw herself stiffly back to the farther 
end of the seat. 

“And six hundred a year,” he finished, 
“seems a great deal more to me now than 
it did three months ago.” 

He waited, wondering if she had under- 
stood all that he meant to imply. Appar- 

350 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


ently not ; for her next question was sharp 
and almost scornful. 

^^But if you have still got six hundred 
a year when you choose to make use of 
it, what on earth are you doing on the 
Thames Embankment at three o’clock in 
the morning — and in those boots?” 

"'You remember,” he asked her, "what 
you said to me that day at Pontresina?” 

"I remember,” she answered constrain- 
edly, "some of the things I said.” v 
"You told me,” he went on, "that 
I was n’t man enough to find myself a 
place in the world without money to bol- 
ster me up. You told me that I was a 
poor, backboneless creature — and that I 
should go to the wall if I were turned out 
to earn my bread for six months. I 
did n’t believe a word of it then ; but I ’ve 
found out since that you were right, 
though I set out to prove you wrong.” 

351 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


She clasped her shabby gloves tightly 
together and blinked hard at the lights on 
Westminster Bridge. It was not only 
the fog that blurred them so to her. 

'Then do you mean/’ she asked under 
her breath, "do you really mean — ?” 

"I do,” he nodded, taking courage. 
"Are you so very much surprised to find 
that I Ve got a little pride ? Even the 
'ornamental classes’ have a certain amount 
of that, you know ; it is n’t only labor 
that stands on its dignity. I ’ve been ex- 
isting on the work of my own hands and 
brains for the last three months — and for 
twelve weeks now I have n’t touched a 
penny that I have n’t earned.” ^ 

"You,” she said, "you!” She thought 
of him as he was at Pontresina — of his 
loafing ways, of his fussy importance over 
his food, of his open and unashamed de- 
votion to the cult of his own comfort. 


352 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

Yet she remembered that she had always 
believed that somewhere in him there was 
the making of a man. 

‘‘Yes, you were quite right/’ he went on 
with a dreary little laugh. “I ’m a use- 
less devil. Nobody wants my services — 
I ’m not a bit of good to anyone. You 
were entirely justified in looking down on 
me—” 

“No, no,” she broke in, angry, but not 
with him. “I won’t let you say that — I 
had no right — ” 

“But you had,” he persisted, “you had. 
All that you said to me was perfectly true. 
The world only tolerated me because I 
could pay my way — ^more or less — with 
money I never earned and was n’t capable 
of earning. For. every useful purpose, 
I ’m a failure.” 

He flung himself back in his seat as he 
spoke and the scarecrow started and 
wriggled drowsily. The lights of West- 
353 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


minster Bridge were still blurred and hazy 
to Diana’s eyes. 

‘Well, I ’ve no right to look down on 
you for that,” she said. “If you were a 
failure, what else am I ? If you can ’t 
find work, neither can I. If nobody wants 
you, nobody wants me either.” 

“I do,” he said quickly. 

The blood rushed to her face ; she 
opened her lips to speak but, before the 
hesitating words came through them, 
there was a jerk and a cough beside her — 
and from the shapeless bundle on the seat 
a tousled head and battered bonnet had 
reared themselves to the level of her shoul- 
der. The scarecrow had awakened to the 
troubles of this work-a-day world. Bre- 
therton cursed her silently and wondered 
how much she had heard ; but her expres- 
sion was one of owlish gravity as she 
raised her head and sniffed the morning 
air. 


354 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


think it ’s abaht time I ’ad me brek- 
fus,” she explained. ‘The cawfee-stall 
smells invitin’, don’t it, miss? And you 
two ’nil be able to chat more comfortable- 
like withaht me sittin’ in the middle of 
yer.” She gathered up her unpleasant 
looking parcel, tucked her shawl about her 
and nodded to Bretherton. “You move 
along, dearie, and tike my plaice.” 

And, trailing behind her the fragments 
of her torn skirt, she moved slowly away, 
sniffing expectantly as she went. 

Diana sat silent, with her hands clasped 
before her, and Bretherton could read 
nothing from her face. 

“Diana,” he said, “I remember telling 
you once that my income was a miserable 
pittance, hardly enough for me to live 
upon. I ’ve found out my mistake since 
then. It ’s not only enough for one to 
live upon; it’s enough for two.” 

She made no movement towards him 

355 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

but thrust her hands down hard into her 
pockets and would not look at him. 

‘Diana/' he whispered. 

“Do you realize what you're saying?" 
she asked harshly. 

“Yes," he said, “I realize that I 'm of- 
fering you proprietary rights in a poor, 
backboneless creature who never did a 
useful thing m his life." 

“Don't," she muttered — almost sullen- 
ly. He waited for her to speak again, 
but nothing came. 

“You refuse to — to entertain the idea? 
I 'm — sorry," 

Was she refusing him? She hardly 
knew. Everything — dire need as well as 
affection — was drawing her to him. It 
was because she could hardly, even to 
herself, separate and distinguish the one 
from the other, that she hesitated. Had 
she not — ^being hungry — called herself a 
fool for refusing Sir Jabez Gr inlay? 

356 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

How was she to judge and be fair to him 
when he came to her offering so much be- 
sides his love? She faced round on him 
suddenly and bitterly. 

^'Captain Bretherton, I ’m homeless and 
penniless. I have n’t tasted food for more 
than twelve hours. I Ve been half 
starved for days. And now, if I under- 
stand you aright, you offer to make me 
your wife.” 

‘"You do understand me aright,” he 
told her. 

“That is to say,” Diana went on, piti- 
less to herself, “you offer me a home — 
and what is to me a fortune.” 

“And myself,” he suggested. 

“And yourself — oh, please don’t imag- 
ine I have forgotten that important 
item. But, under the circumstances, 
don’t you think that you ’re putting too 
great a strain upon my disinterested- 
ness?” 


357 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


He saw how she was fighting with her- 
self and spoke very gently. 

understand what you mean. Per- 
haps I ought not to have spoken to-night. 
Perhaps I ought to have waited until 
things were better with you. It might 
have been fairer to you — to us both, if 
you like to put it that way. But — I am 
going to tell you what is in my mind, even 
if you are angry with me for saying it.” 

‘^Go on,” she told him briefly. 

‘‘Perhaps, in my blundering conceit, I 
made a mistake ; but it seemed to me, that 
last day at Pontresina, that if I had said 
to you ‘I care for you for your own sake ; 
I want you, not your money, but for your- 
self — ’ it seemed to me that you would 
have come to me then. If you knew how 
often I have regretted that I did not say 
it! Tell me, was I wrong?” 

“No,” she nodded, “you were n't 
wrong. Then I would have — ” 

358 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 

'^And now?” 

‘^No,” she said harshly, turning her 
back on him; but he only drew a little 
nearer to her, quietly persistent. 

‘‘Because you are too proud — is that 
it?” 

“I suppose that is it,” she admitted — 
and then, more stubbornly, “yes, I am too 
proud.” 

“Are you trying to make me still more 
ashamed of myself?” he asked. 

“What do you mean?” she asked back. 

“I mean that I was willing enough to 
marry you when you were the plutocrat 
and I was the pauper. Have n’t I put my 
pride in my pocket for you, Diana? 
Haven’t I trailed about London for the 
last three months trying to justify my 
existence in your eyes?” 

His hand went out and lay upon her 
arm and she did not shake it off. 

“Diana, a much humiliated failure asks 

359 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


you to lead him in the way he should go/^ 

He heard something between a laugh 
and a sob and her hand came out of her 
pocket and lay in his. 

''It will be the blind leading the blind, 
then — and the end of that is the ditch.’' 

"Never mind,” he encouraged her, 
"never mind — even the ditch can 't be 
worse than the Embankment in Novem- 
ber.” 

He had followed the scarecrow’s advice 
— moved along and taken her place. But 
Diana pushed him back. 

"There ’s some one coming — a police- 
man,” she cautioned — and Fellowes 
loomed large into sight. He had been 
much exercised in his mind over his for- 
mer captain’s plight; he was taken aback 
now by the change in his former captain’s 
manner. Bretherton scented breakfast 
and leaped to his feet. 

"That you, Fellowes? Glad you’ve 
360 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


come back. Look here, I Ve changed my 
mind about that shilling — if you could 
oblige me with the loan of it for a few 
hours ? Thanks, awfully. And you ’ll be 
glad to hear I Ve changed my mind on the 
other point, too. I ’m going back to civ- 
ilization — this morning. Meanwhile, this 
lady and I are going to breakfast off the 
coffee-stall at your expense.” 

And he was off to the coffee-stall, the 
precious shilling glistening in his palm; 
leaving Fellowes, dumb with bewilder- 
ment, to scrutinize the shabby figure on 
the seat and thoughtfully resume his pon- 
derous walk. 

When he had gone a few steps he turned 
and looked back. There were two shab- 
by figures now on the seat beneath the 
lamp; and he heard the clash of crockery 
and voices, muffled, as of those who spoke 
with their mouths full. Also he heard 
Bretherton laugh and Diana laugh back. 

361 


DIANA OF DOBSON’S 


And so, in the wind of the morning, 
they began life together. The world had 
need of neither of them; but they had 
need of each other. 


THE END 


362 















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